Gods and Legions

by Michael Curtis Ford

  At these, as is traditional, his throne was encircled by the military ensigns of Rome and the republic. And while Christ's initials were surreptitiously removed from the labarum, the imperial standard which from Constantine's time had borne representations of those letters along with a crown and a cross, the symbols of pagan superstition were so cleverly embedded in the design and adornments of office that even a faithful Christian ran the risk of idolatry merely by respectfully saluting his sovereign. The soldiers passed before him in review, and each man, before receiving a generous donative from the hand of Julian himself, was required to cast a few grains of incense into the flame burning upon the altar. A few good Christians might refuse, or at the least confess and repent afterwards, but far greater numbers, attracted by the gold and awed by the emperor, entered into the diabolic contract. Since I myself refused even to view such atrocities, I found myself sadly contemplating a smaller role in Julian's inner circle — to his chagrin and wonder, as he could not imagine why I might be concerned with the religious beliefs of another, and to the evident pleasure of Maximus, who regarded me as a rustic interloper with a mere journeyman's education and culture. By now, the notion had formed in my mind of quitting Constantinople and finding my own path, yet I hesitated, thinking perhaps that Julian was merely passing through a phase, that he would return soon to his old self, and that I should not be too hasty in removing myself from his court.

  Shortly after the new year, in an effort to combat the winter doldrums into which the city had fallen after the frenzy of the succession and the Christmas season, Julian determined to stage a series of games and combats in the circus. This prospect he at first looked upon with resignation, as a pastime unfitting for the mind of a philosopher. The entire time we were in Gaul he had never once attended the games, for in provincial cities such as Sens and Paris, in any case, only second-rate spectacles and gladiators would have performed. Even now, in the grandest city of the world, he was unsure whether they were worth his while. I reminded him of the danger of this attitude, for even the great Julius Caesar had once so offended the Roman people as to threaten a riot, when he demonstrated indifference by reading dispatches during the course of a race. Julian gradually warmed to the idea, however, and resolved to stage a three-day series of games, culminating in a gladiator battle that would be worthy of his accession to Constantius' throne.

  And in this he begged my attendance. 'It's time for a diversion, Caesarius, if only for a day or two,' he said. 'You're disappointed in me, I know. A change of view is what we need.'

  We were late arriving that day because of pressing business that had kept him at the palace — vastly late, to the irritation of the crowd, which typically looked forward as much to viewing the Emperor and his entourage in the box as the actual combat down below. The preliminary rounds had already been fought, and the mob had begun clamoring for the event for which it had paid, the battle between champions. It was only at this time that Julian arrived, followed by myself and a modest train of courtiers. The crowd erupted in cheers as he took his seat and nodded to the president of the circus to announce the climactic event.

  There was at this time a Gallic champion with the unpronounceable nickname of Vercingetorix, in commemoration of the powerful Arverni chieftain who had so vexed Julius Caesar centuries before. He was said to have never been defeated in gladiatorial combat — which goes without saying, because all battles at this level were to the death. The man was huge — a good head taller than average, and solid muscle from head to toe, with long, auburn hair flowing loose to his waist and enormous mustaches streaming down the sides of his chin, a source of fascination to the crowd. As Vercingetorix was announced he sauntered into the arena to deafening cheers, as nonchalant as if returning from the market, his hands swinging freely at his sides, nodding casually up to acquaintances he recognized in the stands. He wore only a crimson loincloth and a dark, polished-leather helmet that obscured the entire top of his face, with openings for his eyes, serving the dual purpose of keeping his impressive hair out of his vision, and lending him a terrifying appearance, like that of an executioner. He wore sturdy sandals and a tiny string around his neck, which appeared all the more thin and fragile by contrast with the brawniness and rippling sinews of his shoulders and chest. A tiny object hung from the thread, which he kissed as if it were a talisman as he stopped short in front of the Emperor's box, his enormous sword hung casually at his right side from his broad belt. His shield, a custom-made affair of at least four thicknesses of ox hide overlayered with a sheet of bronze and studded with costly jewels and gold inlay, hung from its carrying strap across his shoulder, like a trophy on display. Although Vercingetorix was young, perhaps no more than twenty-five, one could tell at a glance that he was a showman as well as a supreme fighter, and he cultivated the appearance of a barbarian chieftain, much to the crowd's delight. He stood motionless before us, staring at the Emperor through his mask, his massive chest rising and falling slowly, and I marveled that a man could stand naked before a hundred thousand people, about to fight in combat to the death, and breathe so deeply and calmly.

  'Where were men like that when we were fighting Chonodomarius, Caesarius? Julian asked in a whisper, gazing in amazement at the warrior's sheer bulk. The sun glinted off the tiny talisman hanging from his neck, almost buried in the mat of reddish hair covering his chest, and I saw that it was a cross.

  The president of the circus then announced Vercingetorix' opponent, a Romanized Syrian giant, taller even than the Gaul, though less Herculean in build, with long, rangy arms and a quick, nervous spring to his step as he trotted across the arena to take his place at his rival's side, facing us. This man was darker, with deep olive skin and a head almost shorn but for a layer of short, bristly hairs. He was older than the Gaul by some ten or fifteen years, and his face was scarred like one who has survived many such battles, with his nose lying lopsidedly to one side. Perhaps the most salient feature about his physique was the inordinate size of his right biceps and forearm, his sword arm; the forearm alone bulged to almost twice the size of its comrade on the left, with a swell almost like that of a thigh muscle, from years of exercise and training in swordsmanship.

  He, too, was naked but for a loincloth and a large sword and shield, though his weapons were completely unadorned, lacking even in polish, as of one who refrained from all external frills or distractions that might burden him in the task at hand. He looked like a military man, and indeed, a courtier nearby whispered to me that he was a former legionary, plucked from his army duties in the East by imperial scouts who had been impressed by his size and fighting ability. His reputation was as a scutarius, a gladiator favoring the large shield and sword. Leo, for that was the name he had chosen, was famed throughout the Empire for his long reach and his lightning speed; and the cheers of the crowd when his name was announced were soon drowned by the cries of the bookies and the bettors as they adjusted their odds and placed their final wagers on the match's outcome.

  Side by side they stood, Vercingetorix and Leo, staring hard at Julian, until with a nod from the president, an orchestra blasted a cacophonous fanfare and the crowd fell silent. At another nod, the two warriors simultaneously raised their right arms in salute, and intoned the customary greeting in clear, confident voices: Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant! 'Hail, Emperor, those who are about to die salute you!' They then retreated several paces in opposite directions to mount their shields, still keeping their eyes expectantly on the imperial box. At the final nod, this time from Julian himself, they drew their swords, turned away, and looked at each other for the first time.

  A fever seemed to grip the stadium as the combatants warily circled each other, every man in the crowd standing and straining to see over the heads of those in front of him, bellowing at the top of his lungs the name of his favorite, or the action to be taken: 'Strike, Gaul!' 'Slaughter him, Leo!' 'I've bet my house on you!' 'I've wagered my daughter on your head!' 'Kill him!' 'Kill the bastard!'

/>   The fighters clashed fiercely but cautiously, ducking and bobbing their heads right and left, performing half lunges with their swords, each testing the reflexes of the other, their eyes fixed only on each other's eyes, unblinking, focused with a concentration that blotted out all other sights around them.

  Suddenly the Syrian launched himself forward, his shield held high in a tremendous lunge, landing with a crash on the Gaul's shield. The crowd's roar swelled as the two scuffled for an instant, their swords flailing and hammering, the Gaul suffering a glancing blow on his left shoulder that seemed to enrage him. Summoning all the force in his legs, he sprang forward against Leo, who was still bearing down upon him with his shield. The Syrian, overpowered by Vercingetorix' superior weight and strength, let the Gaul's momentum carry him forward, while he himself fell and rolled deftly on his back away from his opponent's rush. Vercingetorix, however, was too skilled to be fooled by such an old trick. He skidded to a stop and whirled just as Leo was again leaping to his feet. Disappointed that he had missed a chance to impale his enemy while he was down, Vercingetorix relaxed slightly to prepare for his next move, dropped his shield a few inches, and stole a glance at his bleeding shoulder.

  That was the mistake the wily Syrian had been waiting for. During his entire roll and feint, Leo's eyes had never left those of Vercingetorix. Now, in that split second when he saw the Gaul glance away, when he detected the tiniest hint of distraction in his enemy's attention, he leaped.

  The Gaul's glance shot back toward Leo, but it was too late. There was no time to brace himself for the assault, to set his stance and raise his shield to deflect the Syrian's outstretched sword. Startled, Vercingetorix momentarily lost his form, and had time only to take a clumsy step to one side to avoid his adversary's rush. This, however, was what Leo had anticipated. Rushing past him like a Spanish bull-leaper, his shoulder barely brushing the Gaul's, Leo reached behind with his sword arm as he passed, and with a single, clean stroke downward, he cleaved through the back of the Gaul's knee, severing the tendons that support the leg as easily as if they were taut tent strings. His lunge carried him forward, and he continued in an easy trot for several steps, waving his fist in a brief salute to the crowd, knowing from the frenzied roar that his plan had borne fruit.

  I glanced over at Julian: he was transfixed, an expression of awe and fervor in his face as he surveyed the bloody sand of the arena. A strange light had come to his eye, an avid gleam almost of eagerness, a thirsting for violence seen only among men in the heat of battle, in the very act of killing. The Syrian champion slowly circled back to the center where the Gaul had sunk down onto his injured right knee, his left leg out in front of him bent at a right angle, a widening pool of black forming in the sand beneath him. Despite his desperate situation now, unable to move from his position, Vercingetorix seemed unperturbed: his massive shoulders were still erect, his huge chest barely moving. I saw beneath the leather mask that his mouth remained closed as he breathed easily through his nostrils. He gave his great mane of hair a shake to remove it from his shoulders and allow it to flow more neatly down his back — even then the man retained his vanity! — and slowly and deliberately he assumed the combat position with his shield and sword and awaited the Syrian's next move.

  It was not long in coming. The Syrian circled Vercingetorix twice as he knelt in the sand, disdaining the easiest and most obvious maneuver of simply lunging at him from behind, whence the Gaul, unable to rotate quickly on his injured knee, could not defend himself. Instead he faced Vercingetorix full in front, his shield dropped at a lopsided angle, knowing that the Gaul would be unable to attack; and slowly, deliberately, he raised his own sword to aim directly at his opponent's chest, his long arm and weapon forming a single, straight, unified line of death. 'Almighty Zeus, strengthen my arm!' he shouted, and the crowd roared. His knees flexed as he prepared to make the special spring and pounce that had given him his nickname, 'the Lion.'

  That was the last time the Lion's mighty right arm would raise a sword.

  Unbelievably, just as the Syrian was about to lunge, Vercingetorix, using only his single good leg cocked before him, sprang forward with the lightness and agility of a cat, lifting the weight of his entire body on the strength of his huge left thigh, his hamstrung right leg trailing behind him like the flailing limb of a rag doll. Caught utterly by surprise, and in a stance set to leap forward rather than to step back out of harm's way, the Syrian stood dumbly for a split second with his shield dropped as the Gaul brought his heavy blade down in a stroke that severed Leo's right arm at the wrist joint as neatly as a piece of cheese. Vercingetorix planted himself again on his knee where he landed, a grin now visible on his face beneath the mask and mustaches, as Leo straightened and backed away from the Gaul's range, staring dumbly at the flat stump of his forearm, the tips of the ulna and radius bones showing brightly amongst the red tissue surrounding them, seemingly too surprised even to bleed.

  The crowd went wild. 'Well washed! Well washed!' they cried, in their morbid twisting of the common bathhouse salutation, as the blood began cascading out of his severed limb onto his thighs. Those who had gone morose and silent with the hamstringing of the Gaul now erupted in an orgy of screaming and raving, of backslapping and gloating. The Syrian shuffled around the arena aimlessly, staring disconsolately at his severed arm, which was now spewing like a hose, his concentration gone as surely as was his life. A senator in a box adjacent to us slid down in his seat, holding his head in despair. 'No!' he moaned. 'No, no, no!' The senator's wager must have been sizable. Vercingetorix, in a mocking gesture, dragged himself on his left leg to where his opponent's severed hand lay in the sand, still gripping the sword. Seizing the white, bloodless fist in his own thick paw, he held it and the blade up in the air for all to see and appreciate, and then tossed them across the arena to the Syrian's feet, as if daring him to reattach the flesh and continue the combat.

  The Syrian, visibly startled, looked down at the filthy, blood-spattered, and sand-encrusted weapon lying at his feet, and a light seemed to come into his eyes as his face regained a semblance of its earlier calm. Kneeling down, he quickly slipped the shield off his left forearm, and jammed the stump of his right arm into the strap instead. This was a struggle, for the strap had been set to fit comfortably around the much smaller muscle on his left limb, but after a few seconds of grimacing and awkwardness he succeeded in stretching the thick leather of the strap sufficiently as to stuff his right forearm in up to the elbow — and here I saw his genius. Now he would be able to bear the shield with his right arm, though only clumsily because he lacked a hand with which to hold the grip and pivot the shield around the fulcrum of the arm strap. But more important, the extreme tightness of the leather strap around his forearm served as a most perfect tourniquet. Indeed, as he raised the shield triumphantly to the crowd, I could see that the bleeding had slowed to a mere trickle. Leo bent slowly to pick up the sword lying nearby with his left hand, kicked his severed right fist carelessly out of the way, and then calmly, menacingly, strode to where Vercingetorix still knelt, dumbfounded.

  A hush fell over the crowd, a silence all the more amazing and disquieting for the deafening roar of only seconds before. There would be no more feints and jabs, no more combinations and exchanges. The final blow would be struck in a moment, and all knew that one man, one of these of such tremendous strength and courage, would be dead.

  This time, Leo had no patience for elegance in killing. He had lost a limb to that notion, and it would not happen again. Trotting directly to the front of the stricken Gaul, whose chest was now heaving in growing panic, he stopped and raised his sword deliberately, again pointing it at the Gaul's chest but prepared, this time, for the big man's leap. In this he was not disappointed, for he knew it was the Gaul's only defense. Springing forward on his left leg, Vercingetorix lunged desperately and clumsily at his opponent, who this time raised his shield deftly to ward off the blow and stepped neatly to one side as Vercingetorix landed o
ff balance in front of him on his bad leg. Falling forward, the Gaul threw his shield down to catch himself, and at that moment the Syrian placed one hobnailed sandal in the small of his back, forcing the Gaul forward onto his belly, and balanced the tip of his sword firmly, but not fatally, on the back of the Gaul's neck, immobilizing him with pain. In this stance, the Syrian cautiously raised his eyes up from the trembling giant lying at his feet, and looked up to the Emperor's box.

  In a case such as this, when one gladiator holds the life of another in his hands, it is the Emperor who decides the fallen gladiator's fate, which he pronounces in the form of a signal: if the fallen gladiator has fought bravely and valiantly, the Emperor may order his life to be spared by raising his thumb. Otherwise, the thumbs-down is given, and the fallen gladiator is dispatched.

  Julian rose slowly from his seat, his face pale both from the shock of seeing such an extraordinary scene played out before him, and from the decision he was about to make. White handkerchiefs were raised around the stadium, and scattered shouts began to be heard: 'Spare him!' 'Kill the bastard Gaul!' 'Thumbs-up, Emperor!' 'Thumbs-down!'

  The screaming multiplied, and within seconds the stadium had erupted into pandemonium, a roar of competing cries and oaths, indistinguishable one from the other. The Syrian stood motionless in the sand, staring patiently up at the Emperor, while the defeated Gaul lay prone and helpless, his right foot twitching uncontrollably from the excruciating pain of the severed tendons.