Empire Of The Undead

by Ahimsa Kerp

  “I have to go,” Brasus said, hefting the spear in gratitude. “Give my love to the boy.”

  Rowanna watched him go, watched the space he had been in long after he'd departed. Most of the village was leaving. Leaving to face another Roman excursion into their land. Roman fools. They would die as their forefathers had died. The wolf people knew no masters, gave no quarter. This she knew, with all of her being. And yet. And yet, she feared.

  It was bright outside, but she sat in the cool darkness of her home. She drifted to a place between wakefulness and sleep, and only when Dapyx appeared to clutch at her knees with grubby hands did she emerge from her reverie.

  “Where have you been?” she asked. “And where are the apples?”

  “I was playing,” Dapyx said. “And I think I lost them.” She knew where the scamp had lost them. His knees were dirty and his arms scratched and bloody. It was impossible to keep the boy from climbing trees.

  “Brasus is gone,” she told him, “he went to fight the Romans.”

  “Oh,” Dapyx said, “well, you’d better make me a spear. I need to go too.”

  “Not yet,” she said, hugging him close to her. His blue eyes burned into her. “But not long from now, either. When you're ten, you can learn the spear and the sword. Now tell me, what's new in Sarmizegetusa?” She had explicitly told him not to go to the nearby capital.

  “There's a storyteller from Gaul who--” Dapyx stopped in sudden alarm as he realized the trap.

  “I thought so,” she said, swatting him on the backside.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “But my friends wanted to go, and I couldn’t let them down. Everyone goes to Sarmizegetusa.”

  She stared at him.

  “Everyone,” he repeated uncomfortably. “I want to go back today and hear the end of the story.”

  “Forget it,” she said. “You do not get to go back today, but if you go get the apples, maybe tomorrow I'll bring you there to hear the rest of the story.”

  Her son scampered off as the sun set. Where was Brasus now? Would they march in the dark, or set up camps in the forests? She would miss his warm body against hers. Rowanna sighed, wishing that she, too, could have fought for her land and her child.

  ****

  “Hannibal,” the storyteller intoned dramatically, “crossed the Alps with thirty-seven war elephants. He fought the Romans again and again, killing them at every battle. By the end, he was an old man, with only one eye. His men were old too, or dead, or they betrayed him for Roman riches.” The dark-haired man paused for emphasis. “Many years had passed and almost everyone who had crossed the mountains with him was dead. Can anyone guess how many elephants he had at the end?”

  Dapyx looked to her in askance. She had heard of Hannibal before, but never in such detail. The Gaulish storyteller was clever, telling of Roman defeats at a time like this.

  “I don't know,” she whispered. A few people, not all children, shouted out guesses. The storyteller held his hand up for silence.

  “One,” the storyteller said. “A single beast, a mean old Syrian named Saurus from the deserts. He was an ornery bastard, and had only one tusk. The other was lost in battle, and some say it broke off in the walls of Rome itself, one misty morning.”

  Despite herself, Rowanna felt captivated by the story. She could see the fog and walls looming up behind them. Before them, angry elephants snorted and tossed their heads impatiently. The dark warriors of Hannibal waited for their chance to remove the Romans from the world. If only they’d succeeded!

  “Saurus wore a red cloth and carried a red shield, because all who saw him knew that he was Hannibal's own mount. He lasted longer than his master, old Saurus did. In fact,” the storyteller's voice lowered until he was speaking in a stage-whisper, “some say he's still out there, looking for Romans to kill.”

  Someone blew a trumpet loudly from behind them. Dapyx jumped, which was fortunate since he didn't notice that his mother was equally startled.

  “Can we go see the elephants?” her son asked, when the laughter had died down and the storyteller's assistant was passing through the crowd looking for tips. Rowanna had a coin in her hand and laughter on her lips when she saw them.

  The horn had been blown not as part of the story, but by a returning war band. It was unusual for them to be back so soon. Had something gone wrong? Rowanna rushed to them, and screamed.

  Brasus had returned. What was left of him, anyway. One of his hands and both his feet were gone, and he was burned across his body. He lay on a wicker stretcher, carried by two of her neighbors. They were on the street, some distance away from the crowd gathered around the storyteller.

  “Come to me,” she said to Dapyx. “Come and see what they have done to us.”

  As her son walked to her, she became convinced this was a dream. She turned to her husband. Though he could barely breathe, he gripped her hand with his one remaining limb. There was no strength left in his body. His mouth moved, forming words, but there was no air to aid him. Within moments, his body fell still forever. Beside him lay the spear of his father. “He wanted you to have it,” the man next to her said as he saw her looking at it.

  “What happened?” she said. Dapyx was beside her, staring in shock at the corpse of his father. Behind her, the people were laughing at more of the storyteller's antics.

  “The damn legion surprised us. They got past the forts and ambushed us. We should have had more men in the passes. We had not even set up camp when we ran into them. They rolled burning balls of fire through the forest, right into our ranks. Brasus was near the front, as always. He never even saw it coming.”

  “You live.” It was not quite an accusation.

  “We killed them, killed them all, but we lost some good men. Brasus meant a lot to us all, that's why Diurpaneus let us bring him back. He's chasing them out of the country already. He wasn’t ready for them, but we know the sly dog. He’ll get them.” He trailed off as the look on Rowanna's face struck him. “We'll kill them all. We'll get vengeance on them for you.”

  She wasn't listening. She grabbed Dapyx's hand so hard that he squealed in pain, and pulled him to see the remnants of his father. She did not know what her son would do, but his little face set into a hard expression. “Let me go with them,” he said, “let me avenge my father.”

  “Not yet,” Rowanna said, “the time is coming, but you are not ready yet.”

  “When will I be?” he asked.

  “When you no longer have to ask your mother for permission first.”

  The trumpet behind them blew once more, and Rowanna found herself wondering how a Roman legion would fare against elephants. What she wouldn’t give to find old Saurus and ride him into battle like the mighty Hannibal himself. For now, though, she had her son to think about. He did not know it yet, but his childhood had ended today.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Rome: 83 CE, Autumn

  The official didn't even look at Felix as he took his equipment, carefully ticking each item as he received it. Two Red faction guards loomed behind him, and slaves were closely watched to ensure they did not steal anything. Felix handed the items over, one piece after the other: helmet, shin guards, leather breastplate, a sweaty red jersey, a whip, and his falx. He was left only with his sweaty, dusty toga.

  Felix scowled as the crowd roared above. This far below the Circus, it was muted but clear, like distant thunder. He rubbed his body down with oil, removing most of the stench, and entered the large door that led into the Red Faction’s quarters. They could do near-everything in these quarters; train, eat, sleep, bathe, fuck, piss, and shit. When the next races began, the chambers would rumble and vibrate as the chariots passed overhead. It had been a distracting sound at first, but he was growing to like it. It reassured him.

  Several Red faction aurigae were preparing for later matches. They were all young, for two reasons. Aurigae needed to be tall, but light. Teens fit that profile perfectly. Secondly, chariot racing was a dangerous sport. Ver
y few survived it for more than a year or two.

  As he entered, his friend Italicus was waiting for him. Italicus was of a similar age to Felix, and one of the only young racers who consistently beat him. His own race would be later that day, amongst stronger competition.

  “Great race, Felix,” Italicus said. “This is your best finish yet in the Circus, before the Emperor.”

  “Second place be damned in a pool of four racers, only three of whom finished. Twenty sesterces. Bah,” Felix said. It was an amount that would have boggled his mind only a few years ago. “I will get little of the purse, regardless, but to have had Caesar himself witness my victory? It was an ill day.”

  “At least you finished the race, amicus. I saw what happened to the white driver. He was lucky to survive, and will owe his master a new chariot, and remember—it was Pharnaces who beat you. I have not bested him yet myself.”

  Pharnaces, like all chariot racers, was infames, a slave of low cast, but he grew more famous with each passing day. Already, there were billboards throughout the city with his face. His horses were always of the highest pedigree, with champions on both sides of the family. He was seen about town with women far above his station.

  “Pharnaces is a fraud,” Felix said. “He risks much with his tight turns, and those will come back to haunt him, and his advantages. With steeds such as his, I could win all matches…”

  “He has earned those horses, friend. He was like me, like you, not long ago. There is much to learn from a man like Pharnaces,” Italicus said. “I used to race with him, you know.”

  “Bah,” Felix waved him away. Italicus was right, but was in no mood to hear it. It was time for a soak, he decided, brushing the sweaty hair from his face. Like many aurigae, he had adopted the Greek style of long hair. Hyacinthus thought it was a sign of Greek superiority, but then Hyacinthus thought everything was a sign of Greek superiority. Felix had asked him to watch the matches today, but he suspected the large man had not made it. Not only did the Greek not enjoy the Circus, he was busy working on one of his experiments. Of late, he would talk of nothing else but his inventions. He aimed to be another Archimedes.

  In truth, he did not see much of the Greek man anymore. Since Felix had won his first competition at the inaugural games of the Flavian amphitheatre three years ago, he had done little other than race. He’d been sold twice. His current owner owned many aurigae, and it was rumored he owned slaves in all four factions. Felix had met the man two or three times, but like his compatriots, he lived at the training grounds not far from the Circus.

  Felix stretched and headed towards the baths, which were located closer to the entrance. He passed the stable-master, who was eating his midday meal from a couch on the edge of the room. He caught Felix’s eye and waved him over. Across from him sat an old man. Felix scowled as he noted the man’s presence.

  Felix walked toward the stable-master and his dining companion. “Salve, equos nutriebat.” He glared at the old man. “And you, magician. I paid you many sesterces, near half my winnings, and yet, there was no curse cast on Pharnaces!”

  “I did curse him, his horses, his chariot, and the ground beneath him,” the old man said mildly. “He was protected. The blue magician is powerful.”

  Felix was too angry to speak. The old man was good for nothing, but he would still gladly collect money from all the aurigae of the red Faction. The man was, or claimed to be, a Druid from Britannia. That was old magic, strong magic. “His horses were too fast. Did you not poison them, you fraud?” Felix asked.

  The old man looked to the equos nutriebat. “Must I go through this every time a brazen youth loses?”

  The stable-master nodded. “Felix, you did well. No one has come so close to beating Pharnaces, but insulting your team negates that credit.”

  Felix sighed. He always tried to stay in control but of late, he increasingly found himself growing angry.

  He took three deep breaths. “My apologies, druid, equos nutriebat. I spoke from emotion and disappointment. War brings out my emotions.”

  “Good,” said the stable master, “but you are wrong. It is not permitted to blunder twice in war. Tonight, we can discuss the four mistakes you made. Pharnaces only made two of them, which is why he won.”

  ****

  Felix leaned back and scrubbed his back without thought. He was racing in his mind, taking the corners tighter and driving more aggressively. He wished he’d gotten close enough to use his falx. Without realizing it, he sighed heavily.

  “Cheer up,” Italicus said. He had joined Felix in the baths soon after the boy’s arrival. They’d left the compound which had its own small but simple bathhouse and sat in a large public bath. There were several other men in the baths, but they were older men of no faction. “There’s plenty going on in the world apart from your race, you know,” he said.

  “I’m in the mood for good news. Tell me.”

  “The Senate has added an African Senator. The first black politician ever to serve. We live in a modern time, amicus.”

  “This is supposed to cheer me?” He scrubbed at his back, frowning at the unexpected effort.

  “You are from Africa. Do you not feel some emotion toward that kindred spirit?” Italicus was laughing.

  “Not much. Here, all are Roman,” Felix said. The bath had done little to cleanse his foul mood. “Still, you implied tidings of more import.”

  “Idle gossip is now of no interest to you? That race must have affected you more than I thought. The real news is guaranteed to improve your mood.”

  “Has Pharnaces caught syphilis?” Felix asked.

  Italicus smiled. “Not that I know of. But this is almost as good. You remember what happened to Afer?”

  Felix shuddered, and glanced reflectively down at his penis. Still there. He'd seen Afer two days after it had happened. They had gotten drunk together, until Felix had enough courage to ask.

  “It was horrible,” Afer had said, drinking deeply from his wine. “The worst thing that has ever happened to me. And I was born a slave—I didn’t have the golden free years that you did.”

  “My early years were spent starving in the desert, surrounded by maniacs. Slaves are spoiled compared to that,” Felix had complained. “But,” he had lowered his voice, “did it really happen?”

  “It really did,” Afer had said, drinking more wine. “He crushed my balls with his big pink fingers. So hard I thought they might pop. Fuck it hurt!”

  He had another drink. Then another and he had continued. “He had an old knife. Old but sharp as Cicero. Only a little bit rusty. With my balls scrunched up, he just chopped them right off. Didn't even let me get drunk first.”

  Felix could feel his own jewels clenching in sympathy.

  “It could have been worse,” Afer said. “Afterward, they told me sometimes they take a slave, cut off the balls and then his cock too. The next day, they make him drink water.”

  “Drink water?” Felix repeated, slow to reach comprehension. "Why?"

  “So much water that he burst and pees a new hole. That or he dies,” Afer said. “At least I’ve still got my cock.”

  Someday, you'll be fucked by half the noble women in Rome, Felix thought. A handsome, sterile slave was in high demand. Still, he did not begrudge his friend the slightest. The image of that blackened and bloody member was never going to leave him.

  “Yes, I remember. I never should have asked him to show me.” Felix said to Italicus, unconsciously shaking his head in rejection of the memory. “It was horrible.”

  “I saw it too. He’s still lucky to have his shaft. The good news is that we won’t ever have to worry about that. The Emperor has banned castration for slaves.”

  “Truly? Why have I not heard?”

  “It was only announced this morning,” Italicus said.

  “Caesar is a great man, the greatest Emperor since Augustus.” A thought struck Felix. “But who will the matrons use to please them?”

  “Maybe they’ll
need some handsome, famous aurigae to sate their lust.”

  “Maybe. Pity they will end up with you instead,” Felix said.

  Felix grabbed his testes and whooped. Italicus joined him. The old men in the bathhouse stared at them with mild disapproval, but the two cheered even louder.

  Their laughter died as the famous Pharnaces entered the bathhouse. He had a faction-mate on either side of him—both competent racers in their own right but clearly hanger-ons. He glanced at the two charioteers in the bath and stiffened. A smile slowly spread across his face.

  He undressed and splashed into the pool, right next to Italicus and Felix.

  “Did I hear you talking about castration?” he said. “Fitting conversation topic for men with no cocks.” His friends slid in beside him.

  Felix felt he had no patience for this. His anger, so strong earlier, had faded, sunk away to the deeps of the pool. “You raced well today, Pharnaces.”

  The older boy laughed in shock, trading unbelieving glances with his friends. “Of course I did. I don’t need second-rate amateurs to comment on my ability.”

  “Gods, Pharnaces,” Italicus said. “Three years ago you weren’t such a prick. Does it only take a little Roman cunny to change you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never only gotten a little Roman cunny.” His friends laughed. His face did not so much as crack a smile. “Why don’t you leave now? I don’t want my water dirtied by red factioners.”

  “We were just leaving,” Felix said. He still felt no anger. Or rather, any anger he felt was buried beneath a weary sadness. There was no need for this aggression, not now. The very idea of factions suddenly seemed divisive and unnecessary to him. What would it take for humans to join together?

  “Oh no,” Italicus said. Felix felt suddenly like he was looking into a mirror. “Am I not good enough to be your friend anymore? Is Felix here not good enough either? You act like you’re high and mighty, but I remember when you wet yourself before your first battle. Ever tell any of your new friends about that?”