Atticus looked out through the open window into the training yard of his modest ludus. On the sun-baked sand nearly two dozen men trained in the fighting arts, sweat pouring off of their well-muscled bodies as they struggled to keep pace with each other. The sound of wooden practice swords connecting with shield and flesh was a constant staccato. Once that sound had sent the lanista’s heart to racing, when he was a younger man and fresh to the world of games. His grandfather had founded Ludus Laeca upon his return from nearly twenty years in the Legion. A decorated veteran, the lanista’s grandfather had used his lifetime of careful savings to found the ludus. The old man had several barbarian slaves he’d captured in his last campaign, and built his initial victories with their blood. From there it was a gradual growth from his grandfather’s small ludus of five gladiators to the proud Ludus Laeca of today, boasting nearly twenty five gladiators.
From tiny seeds grow mighty trees, his grandfather had said, some barbarian saying he’d heard on campaign. The old man had commissioned a sign saying such, and put it on display in the training yard. Atticus supposed that for some of the men down there the saying could provide some small comfort, a saying from their own people, depending on which savage tribe they hailed from. Atticus had grown up in the ludus, the grandson of the lanista, and then when grandfather breathed his last Atticus was the son of the lanista, now the lanista himself. His father had been an ambitious man, possessed of a love of coin that was only matched by his love of the games.
While his grandfather had focused on the training and perfection of single gladiators, preferring a quality over quantity approach to the games, the lanista’s father Felix had dreamt beyond such. When the ludus passed into the hands of Felix he began to buy more slaves, train them only in the basics of battle, and then hurl them into the arena. He would insist to his son Atticus that there were men born for glory and men born for slaughter, and that as a lanista it was his calling to tell one man for the other. Raise up the champions, throw the rest into the bloodbath. House Laeca swiftly gained wealth and reputation by being a purveyor of bulk bloodshed, and won the majority of the contracts for the mock battles that required death on a grand scale.
Sadly, for Atticus, when the ludus passed into his hands, the tastes of the Roman mob had shifted away from the battles and had returned to a desire for feats of skill. No longer did the crowd wish to see dozens of men hacked to pieces in wild melees, or to see slaves and criminals armed with daggers be slaughtered by quality gladiators. The Roman audience craved matched pairs and champions, skilled gladiators fighting grand duels for personal glory and the love of the crowd. Rome wanted the gladiators of his grandfather, thought Atticus, not the arena fodder of his father.
Lanista Atticus had done his best to stay relevant in the games, and had taken what few men of quality that remained in his stable and began crafting them into true gladiators. All were capable gladiators, and had won coin and glory for House Laeca, though due to the reputation of the ludus Atticus was unable to secure position in any of the larger games. His men fought well, and they brought coin and glory, though the cost of the estate and the staff had exceeded the winnings. The other men were training hard, and gladiators in their own right, though none were to the standard of the great games of the Coliseum, and as such fought in the smaller arenas spread throughout Rome and its provinces. Heraus, a older man and the last surviving gladiator of Felix’s stock, fought almost exclusively in the bloody pits of the noxii, the black market arenas in which condemned criminals and slaves were forced to fight.
This simply would not do. Atticus cared about his ludus, and took his life as a lanista seriously. He must find a way to rise up, to elevate Ludus Laeca once more. At this thought he turned from the window and looked at the severed head on his desk. Its skin was a deathly pallor, the ragged wound at the base of its neck had been carefully wrapped in scented cloth, and its yellowed eyes burned with an unsettling vitality. Upon its head was a word, tattooed in the language of the Hebrews, the word for ‘life’ according to the centurion from whom Atticus had purchased the head.
Several days past Atticus had been called upon by Centurion Cyprian Africanus, a well-known veteran of the Legio VII. The soldier had sent word ahead to the ludus that his arrival was eminent, asking for audience with the lanista for the purpose of a business transaction. Atticus knew that the seventh legion had recently returned from a campaign in Judea, though given their billet in the distant city of Capua he could not imagine the centurion’s reason for making the journey to Rome itself. Possibly the soldier intended to sell the lanista several slaves for the pits, though the tribes of Judea were not especially known for breeding the kinds of warriors that made good gladiators, so Atticus was curious as to what business the soldier might bring.
Centurion Africanus was granted audience, and the lanista made sure to ply the soldier with food, drink, and small talk before inquiring as to the nature of the visit. Atticus had long been a shrewd judge of character in men, after all it was his job as a lanista to see the champions or beasts lying quiet in men’s souls, and stoking the fires to craft them into fine warriors. In the centurion Atticus saw a hardened soldier, a patriot of Rome, and yet there was a fear in the man, some sense of dread or disgust hidden just beneath the surface.
Soon, after several cups of wine, the centurion began to tell his tale. Atticus listened quietly and intently as the soldier told of his century’s assault on the mountain fortress of Masada. The lanista shifted in his seat as he saw the horror written on the centurion’s face as he recounted the desperate battle with the creatures. Cyprian had paused for a moment, once he’d told the tale of cutting off the tattooed man’s head. Then he reached into his satchel and produced the very head he’d cut from shoulders.
Atticus had leapt from his seat in shock as the severed head opened its eyes, its mouth working against the gag binding its jaws shut. As the lanista recovered his composure and re-took his seat the centurion told the remainder of his tale. Cyprian had heard campfire stories about the golems of the Jews, magical creatures that were men who were made of clay, then bestowed with life by the Jew who created them. They were servants, but according to the Judeans were cursed creatures, and brought only sorrow upon those around them. More a cautionary tale than anything, he’d always just dismissed it as a campfire tall tale, typical amongst soldiers on campaign. And yet, when he set his eyes upon the still living severed head, he knew that there had to be some truth in the stories.
Cyprian had bound the golem’s jaws, and taken the head as a prize, as if compelled, so curious was he of this supernatural marvel. It was then that Cyprian leaned forward, his gaze transfixing Atticus. “It was the bites Lanista, the bites transformed them,” he had said, “Many of the men who were killed in battle soon rose again, and attacked us as if they too were on the side of the rebels. Of my hundred men only eighteen left the field alive, and a score of them had been bitten by the creatures, some more than once. Many soldiers in the relief column were bitten as well. We thought little of these bites, as wounds in battle are common to us, so we bound them with healing herbs and continued in our duties.”
Atticus poured himself another strong measure of wine, and gulped it down in two swallows as the centurion finished his grisly tale. The soldier’s face was pale as a shade while he described the madness of that evening’s events. “I cannot be sure when it began exactly, but the men who had been bitten fell grievously ill, and expired during the night. Most fell un-noticed in their tents, though some perished in the medicae,” he recounted as he glanced down at the golem’s head resting on the table, “Within moments of death they, I do not know what else to say, returned to life, just like the men killed in the actual battle. Though they were like this golem creature, ravenous beasts that seem to think only of consuming the flesh of men.”
“In the depths of the night these creatures, these golems, moved among the camp, slaughtering the men. We are the seventh legion, and veterans of many wars,
so we rallied. Word had spread of our battle on the mountain, and once we knew our own were attacking us we were swift to mobilize. It was a long and bloody night lanista, and many more men were bitten and turned before we realized that it was the bites. Our losses were tremendous, from the massacre in the night, then the following day’s executions of those survivors who were bitten. In a day the legion had lost two thirds of its strength,” said Cyprian as he stared into his goblet, swirling the last of the wine around, losing himself for a moment in his memories before speaking again, “Legio VII is to be disbanded within a month’s time, most of the soldiers will be transferred to other cohorts, and the few men of my own century, including myself, will be retired. Which brings me to my business with you lanista.”
Atticus was brought out of his reverie for a moment, his conversation with Cyprian fading from his mind as there was a knock on his office door. “Enter.” he said as he picked up the head and placed it in its box under his desk. Hesta, the Greek slave girl, opened the door bearing a small plate of food. “Your midday meal Dominus.” she spoke softly, her head bowed, as she brought it to his table.
“Ah, yes, thank you. That will be all,” Atticus smiled, watching her with great scrutiny as Hesta set the food on the desk and stood before him with her head bowed. The lanista felt a stirring in his loins as his eyes moved up and down her body. He knew that the small group of slave girls he kept as part of his household would take turns bringing his midday meal, for all of them knew that in the afternoons his appetites tended to be for more than simple nourishment. Lanista Atticus Laeca was a widower, his wife having died giving birth to his daughter. A certain darkness had filled him then, and since that time Atticus had chosen not to take a new wife, instead focusing on the business of his ludus and the slaking of his lust upon the supple flesh of his young slaves.
He could see the grim acceptance in Hesta’s demeanor, and it cooled his desire. He was a kind man, and handsome enough, though he supposed he did use his slaves roughly when his lust was upon him. A small matter, as the golem’s low muffled moan brought him back to the business at hand. “You may take your leave.,” he said as he made a dismissive gesture, and the visibly relieved girl walked briskly out of the office, gently shutting the door.
Atticus opened the box and lifted the head, placing it upon the desk, his food untouched. The centurion had theorized that the bites of the golem’s head would transform a living person into the undying cannibal creatures in Cyprian’s tale. The lanista thought back to the height of his father’s business, the days where coin flowed, even if glory and honor did not. If he could bring to the arenas of Rome a spectacle that was as much a marvel as it was a terror, his ludus would rise in status and wealth. These golems, creatures of myth made flesh, could be the answer he had been looking for.
Lanista Atticus Laeca walked through the tight hallways of the slave pens beneath the ludus. His doctore, the trainer of gladiators, had ordered the house guards to move five of the least promising slaves into a single cell. It was far from the gladiator’s holding pens, originally designed as a disciplinary cell for unruly slaves, so was perfect for what Atticus intended. With the aid of his guards and the doctore the lanista had removed the golem’s gag and allowed it to bite each of the slaves on the shoulder. That had been in the early hours of the morning, and now he walked alone down the hallway towards the cell.
The guards weren’t particularly brave men, but they were paid well, and had remained at their post. Inside the cell the five slaves where visibly weakened, barely holding onto the spark of life. Atticus had the guards bring a stool, and he sat on the other side of the pen, watching in silence as the men inside perished. They all died roughly at the same time, only moments between each of them, and Atticus took note of this. He sat in silence, watching the bodies, his heart thundering in his chest as he waited, hoping that his expensive purchase of the golem’s head had been worth the money. Cyprian was going to be able to retire comfortably with the sum that Atticus had paid, emptying the savings of the ludus in a single transaction. A small matter, thought Atticus, as the ludus was doomed to fail within the year at any rate. If this gamble did not pay off it would not change the inevitable. Though if it did work, fame and fortune would be his.
One of the bodies began to twitch, then the rest, and soon the eyes of the dead men began to open. They started to moan, their eyes burning with hatred and hunger. They rose to their feet and began grasping at Atticus and his guard through the bars. They hurled themselves against the wall and bars, in a frenzy to get at the living men on the other side. The lanista smiled, congratulating himself on his forethought in reinforcing the cell in preparation of the new golems. The bite marks on their shoulders were like slave brands, and at that moment Atticus knew that it would be the symbol of his new breed of slaves, the ragged bite pattern of his golem. The lanista smiled widely, and turned from the cell to return to the villa. His gamble had paid off and his blood was hot, so he went in search of Hesta, whom it seemed had not escaped his lust today after all.
THE BESTIARIUS
Gedra closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he clenched his quaking hand into a tight fist. The moans of his new opponents had been ceaseless since they had turned, and rest did not come easily to him on the eve of battle. Now he stood before the closed arena gates, knowing that across the sun-baked sands another gate contained the golem creatures of his dominus. Golems, that is what Lanista Laeca had called them last night during the hero’s feast, a traditional last supper for the men who would fight the next day. Gedra had no appetite during the meal, and as he now prepared to enter the arena he was thankful for the empty stomach, sickened as he was by his enemy.
Gedra had fought in the arena ten times in the two years since being trained as a gladiator. He was one of the bestiari, the beast fighters, and though often an outcast in the company of other gladiators, a certain respect was paid him also. Unlike the other gladiators, who trained to battle armed men, the bestiarius had been taught the art of killing ferocious beasts. Gedra had fought such creatures as exotic as the ostrich bird, with its powerful kicks and sharp talons, and creatures as common but deadly as lions and bears.
Often the animals were sick and starving by the time they were turned out into the arena, and Gedra’s tactics were to wear them down until he could deliver a killing blow. Though he had to give the crowd a good show, and as such would occasionally rush in to strike at the foe. As long as the blood flowed, the beasts roared, and Gedra conducted himself with poise and grace, the crowd howled with joy at the brutal spectacle.
His body was a latticework of scars, as even the best of tactics were incapable of saving his flesh from the claws, teeth, and talons of his enemies. While he had been schooled in the use of the spear and bow that were the common weapons of the bestiari, there were bouts in which the editor of the games would require Gedra to fight with other weapons. If the editor wanted to drag out the time of the bout, or needed to satisfy a particularly bloodthirsty crowd, Gedra would be forced to fight with sword and dagger, or sometimes a spiked cestus glove. It was in these close quarters battles that Gedra would emerge from the struggle nearly as slashed and bloody as his defeated foe.
Today’s battle seemed to be set up to be more traditionally, and Gedra was armed with a short stabbing spear and a small oval shield. It was not the long spear of the beast hunts, but a short spear with a wide blade that could slash or stab. The bestiarius had used such weapons in bouts with larger animals, once against a bear and once against a massive boar. The gladiator was confident, though wary of his new opponents, the way a bestiarius should be.
With a grinding of heavy hinges the gates to the arena opened, and Gedra stepped onto the sand. He held his arms up in salutation to the crowd, who returned his pose with cheers. Though the bestiarius was an outcast among his fellow gladiators, the crowd often cheered for the beast hunter, as he represented a symbolic mastery of man over beast. Though the same crowd that cheered his entran
ce into the arena would cheer just as loud should be torn limb from limb. The crowd grew silent as the gates on the other side of the arena opened.
The editor had spoken to the crowd of a grand new beasts being offered to the arena by Ludus Laeca, and everyone was eager to see what new horror emerged from the darkness. At first there was only a low moan, and then a golem shuffled out onto the arena floor. He was dressed in tattered clothing, and on his shoulder was the ragged bite would that was reflected in the cloth banner that Lanista Laeca had hung over the gate. The crowd remained silent, confused that a man walked into the arena and not a beast. Gedra knew better, for he had heard the moaning, and knew that the man he now faced had once been a slave in the household.
The golem moaned as its yellowed eyes scanned the crowd, staggering to the side for a moment as if overwhelmed by the presence of so many onlookers. The crowd’s demeanor changed, and someone shouted “This is no beast!” while the crowd began to grow unhappy. Then, as if spurned on by the detractors, the golem’s gaze fell upon Gedra, and it let out a bestial scream as it began moving towards him.
At first the gait of the creature was more of a shuffle, and then within moments it became something between a run and a walk. Gedra stepped forward, hoping to make quick work of this sad creature. He knew not what strange blight the wound on the creature’s shoulder signified, though he felt sorry for the man. Clearly he was suffering from some disease or drug that the lanista had forced upon him to make him more like a beast. Gedra was sickened by the whole affair, the honor of his position as bestiarius being slighted by calling this poor man a beast.
Gladiators vs Zombies Page 2
