The Gladiator

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Parthian glanced up as he held the needle and lamb's-gut thread poised over the wound. A sword cut had laid open the gladiator's thigh. Fortunately the wound was shallow and clean and had bled nicely to keep it clear of dirt and grit. The muscle was superficially torn and would mend without causing any handicap.

The gladiator was standing in front of him, stripped down to a loincloth. His torso bore several scars, some of which looked like they might have killed or crippled a lesser man. Although he had been strong and fit before he had be come a slave, two years of hard training had left him with a superb physique. The Parthian had never seen the like in all his days tending the warriors of his master's bodyguard.

It had been a good life, he reflected briefly, before the border skirmish that had led to his capture and then being sold on as a surgeon to the family of a wealthy Greek merchant. Since then, it had been an endless succession of slaves with boils, sprained ankles and wrists, and venereal diseases amongst the girls of a brothel the merchant owned in Athens. The Parthian had been travelling with his master when the earthquake had struck Crete. He had been outside the inn where the Greek and his retinue had been staying when the earth roared and rumbled beneath him, throwing him to the ground.

When the earthquake had passed and he stood up, there was nothing left of the inn, and not a sound came from beneath the heap of rubble.

The Parthian had taken the chance to flee into the hills, where he wandered for two days, growing steadily hungrier, until he came across the gladiator and his band of slaves. At first he was content to accept the scraps of food that were freely given to him, and resolved to travel to the coast and find a ship heading east on which he could stow away. But then he had come to know the gladiator. There was something about him that reminded the Parthian of his master back home. An inextinguishable aura of authority and determination that would brook no obstacle. Once the gladiator had learned of his medical expertise, the Parthian was asked to remain with the slaves and tend to their needs. For the first time in his life he had been offered a choice, and as he pondered the novelty of deciding his own fate, he saw the gladiator watching steadily, waiting for his reply. At that moment he knew that his choice had been made.

In the days that had followed, the gladiator's band of followers had swelled as more slaves flocked to his side, begging to be given the chance to take up arms against their former masters. The gladiator had taken them all, selecting those who were fit to be part of his growing war band. The rest were sent to the large, flat-topped hill that served as their base. Already the approaches to the summit had been protected by earthworks and palisades, and thousands of slaves lived on the hill in a variety of crude shelters, or even in the open air. Despite the hardships and the ever-present fear of Roman soldiers and recapture, they were happy and savoured every day that they remained at liberty.

The Parthian leaned closer to the wound and examined it briefly.

Three stitches would suffice to reattach the severed muscle. Another nine or ten stitches would be enough to close the wound, the Parthian decided. He glanced up.

'This is going to hurt. Are you ready, Ajax?'

'Do it now '

As the gladiator stood still, the surgeon leaned forward and probed into the wound, drawing the two ends of the muscle together. Then he pierced the tissue, pressed the needle through and sewed his stitches, before cutting off the spare thread and knotting it securely.

He glanced up. 'All right?'

Ajax nodded, keeping his steely gaze on the vista below him. He stood on the cliff above the defile, bathed in the warm glow of the morning sun. The sun had risen an hour earlier, and the first shafts of light had shone down the length of the defile, illuminating the corpses of Roman soldiers sprawled and heaped along the narrow path. In amongst them were the bodies of horses and hundreds of the slaves who had closed in to finish off the Romans caught in the ambush. It had been a bloody fight, Ajax recalled vividly. The desperate courage of his men against the training, armour and weapons of the Romans. The last of the enemy had been hunted down and killed just before dawn. Now his men were picking the bodies clean of anything that would serve the needs of his growing army. Before, they had a miscellany of swords, knives, scythes, spears, pitchforks and clubs. Now they had proper kit, and Ajax knew how to use it. Several of his followers had once been gladiators themselves, and had already started to train the best of the slaves in the ways of combat. Soon, they in turn would train other slaves, and before the month was out, Ajax would have thousands of men under arms, and nothing would stand in the way of his revolt.

He winced as the surgeon pinched the open mouth of the wound together and pushed the needle through his skin, deftly pulling the thread tight before returning the needle back through the flesh in the opposite direction. The pain was hot and made every nerve in his leg shriek with agony, but he kept his jaw clamped shut and fought down the temptation to show that he was suffering. Pain was pro of of life, his first trainer had told him at the gladiator school outside Brindisium. The bearing of pain was also the measure of a man, the trainer had continued as he had walked down the line of new recruits, striking every man in the face as he passed in each direction.

Those that flinched or whimpered he struck again and again, until they collapsed on the ground, bloodied and broken. The next day he repeated the exercise, and the next, and by the end of the first ten days, they could all stand and take his blows without any expression crossing their faces.

So Ajax stood steady as a rock as the Parthian surgeon worked unhurriedly on his wound and he did not look down until at length he heard the Parthian ease himself back and stand, bloodied fingers holding the needle in one hand as he reached for a cloth from his bag with the other.

'There, it is done. I will check the wound again tonight. Try not to exert the leg too much today, or the stitches may tear.'

The gladiator offered one of his rare smiles. 'There is no need for exertion today, Kharim. The slaves have won their victory; now let us celebrate. Once we have tended to our wounded and buried our dead, we return to camp. We'll slaughter and roast a herd of goats, break open the wine and have a banquet worthy of the gods.'

'Which gods? Mine or yours?'

Ajax laughed and clapped his hand on the Parthian's shoulder.

'Neither, or both. What does it matter? As long as we are free men, who cares which gods we worship? Life is good, made sweeter still by the defeat of those bastard Romans.'

'Yes.' Kharim nodded as he wiped his hands clean on the rag and peered down at the bodies below. He was silent for a moment. 'It was a shame about the boy'

Ajax's smile faded as he recalled the youth who had led the Romans into the trap.' He knew what his fate would be. Pollio was as brave as they come.' Ajax slowly balled his hand into a fist.' He will not be forgotten. He bought us this victory with his life. I shall honour Pollio by killing more Romans.'

The Parthian glanced at him uneasily. 'Why do you hate the Romans so much?'

'Simple. They made a slave of me.'

'They are no worse than other slave owners. Yet you do not hate others as you hate Rome.'

'You are right.' Ajax smiled faintly. 'In truth, I have my own reasons for hating the empire, and a handful of Romans in particular.

But it does not matter. As long as my hatred feeds my desire for freedom, yours and that of all the slaves who follow me, then let me indulge it, eh?'

They shared a smile, and then Ajax frowned as he caught sight of a small party of escorted prisoners being led along the top of the cliff towards him. The leader of the escorts was a young man, tall and broad, and grinning as he approached his commander. Ajax main -

tained a stern expression as he folded his arms and stood, stiff-backed, as the prisoners were brought to him.

'Chilo, what is this? I gave the order that there were to be no prisoners.'

Yes, Ajax, I know. But this one,' Chilo turned and grabbed one of his prisoners by the shoulder and roughly shoved him forward so that he stumbled and nearly lost his balance, 'is a centurion. I caught him, with these others, hiding beneath a wagon at the rear of their column. They didn't put up any fight, and threw down their swords.

And there was me thinking that centurions were supposed to die rather than surrender.'

Ajax stared at the Roman officer. 'Is this true?'

The centurion lowered his eyes and nodded.

'Why? Tell me why you dishonour yourself, and these men you lead.'

'Why?' The centurion looked up nervously. 'We were beaten.

There was no point in further resistance.'

'Coward!' Ajax shouted. 'Coward! There is always a point to resistance! Always. That is why I stand here as your victor. And you bow in defeat. You are humiliated, Roman, the more so because you chose shame rather than death. A slave lives a life of shame, of obeisance, always in fear. In this he has no choice, and death is merely a release from humiliation and pain. That is the lesson I learned when Rome made me a slave.' He paused and then sneered at the centurion. 'That is why these slaves beat you, Roman. They know that liberty is the only thing worth dying for. Yet you, and these other curs, you chose to surrender your liberty rather than die. And that is why we defeated you. That is why we will defeat every Roman soldier in Crete. Because our will is stronger than yours.'

The centurion stared back, terrified by the intensity of Ajax's glare. There was a tense pause before the gladiator took a deep breath and continued. 'What is your name, Centurion?'

'Centurion Micon, sir. Second squadron, Second Batavian Mounted Cohort.'

'Well, Centurion Micon, it appears that there is no Second Batavian Mounted Cohort any more. Therefore it has no need of a centurion.' Ajax swiftly pulled out a dagger and grabbed Micon by the harness that covered his chainmail vest, and which marked him out as an officer. Three medallions were attached to the harness: campaign awards. Ajax slipped the blade under the leather shoulder strap of the harness, smiling as the Roman flinched, and cut the strap with a quick jerk. He cut the other shoulder strap, and then the tie that bound the harness around the centurion's waist, and wrenched the harness and its medallions away from Micon. He held it up for his men to see and then contemptuously hurled it into the ravine.

There was a roar of approval from the slaves who had been watching the little drama.

'You are no longer a centurion,' Ajax sneered.' You are nothing more than the last scrap of your precious cohort.'

He turned to Chilo. 'Take your prisoners to the edge of the cliff and throw them off, one by one.'

Chilo grinned.' Yes, General! It will be my pleasure.'

'No!' one of the Batavian auxiliaries shouted. You can't! We surrendered!'

'How foolish of you,' Ajax replied coldly. 'I wonder if you would have spared me had I begged for mercy on the sands of the arena.

Chilo, get on with it.'

Chilo and two of his men grabbed the nearest auxiliary and dragged him roughly towards the edge of the cliff that dropped into the ravine. The Roman shouted and screamed for mercy, writhing in their grasp. They struggled towards the edge, and stopped a safe distance back, before holding the captive's wrists firmly. Chilo stood behind him, then, bracing his boot in the small of the auxiliary's back, thrust him forwards as his men released their grip. With a terrified scream the Batavian lurched over the edge of the cliff, arms flailing. Then he was falling in a lazy tumble as he clawed at the air.

His screams were cut off a moment later as his head struck an outcrop of rock and exploded like a watermelon. His body bounced off the cliff and fell with a heavy crunch on to the boulders at its foot. One by one his comrades suffered the same fate, as the slaves cheered each man, and jeered those who struggled most as they were led to the edge.

At last only Micon remained. He had slumped to his knees and was trembling pitifully as his captors came for him. Chilo had him dragged towards the cliff, but just before they reached the edge Ajax called out:

'Stop!'

Chilo and his men turned towards their leader with questioning expressions.

'Not him.' Ajax waved them back from the edge. 'That one lives.

Bring him here.'

The shaking Roman was thrown to the ground before the gladiator and Ajax bit back on his disgust as he stared down at the man, pathetically mumbling his thanks.

'Silence, you dog!' He kicked the Roman. 'Hear me out. I want you to go back to Gortyna, and tell your superiors — tell everyone you meet — all that you have seen here. You tell them that the slaves will be free, and that we will destroy, with sword and fire, any who come between us and freedom… Now stand up, you cowardly vermin. On your feet! Before I change my mind.'

Micon scrambled up and stood trembling before Ajax.

'Do you understand what you have to do, Roman?'

'Y-yes.

Ajax turned to Chilo. 'Find him a horse, then escort him away from here, a safe distance so our people won't be tempted to chase him down and cut his throat. Then set him free. Is that understood?'

Chilo bowed his head. 'Yes, General. As you command.'

That night fires flared into the starry sky to warm the slaves as they celebrated their victory. At the heart of the patchwork of mean shelters and tents that formed their camp was a large open space in front of the tent of Ajax and his closest companions. Scores of fire pits had been dug, and as darkness fell, mutton carcasses on spits roasted over heaps of glowing embers, filling the air with the rich aroma of cooking meat. For slaves, used to an unvaried diet of gruel and whatever small animals they might snare, this was the height of luxury. The kind of feast that their former masters enjoyed, and which they had only ever dreamed of. Wine, bread and fruit taken from the kitchens of the estates that had been sacked by the slaves were freely distributed on the orders of Ajax.

As his followers feasted, Ajax made his way from fire to fire, congratulating those who had fought in the ambush, and listening patiently as they boasted of their part in the battle. It did his heart good to see how the ragged, cowed fugitives who had joined his struggle against Rome were now sofull of fight. Where he led in battle, they would follow, unquestioning. He had been used to the adulation of the mob that came to spectate at the games in Rome, but this was altogether different. These slaves, these people, did not follow him because he won them bets, nor because he excited their bloodlust. They followed him because they shared a common burden. And now, he mused, they shared a common destiny.

He had nursed their ambition with small raids on estates and villages, and then attacks on Roman patrols. Only when he had been sure that they were ready did he plan the previous night's ambush.

He had watched the Roman column ever since it had set out from Gortyna. Skirmish by skirmish he had lured the commander towards the hills, and then, when the trap was set, he had sent in the boy. The child had not hesitated for an instant when Ajax had asked Pollio to carry out the task that would almost certainly lead to his death. The boy's father had been killed by an overseer, and his mother sold to a brothel. All he lived for was revenge. He had gone to his death willingly and Ajax had been glad for him to go, knowing he would have done precisely the same if their positions had been reversed. He had long grown used to the conviction that there was nothing he would not do if it aided his desire to defy and destroy Rome and all it stood for. In time, his followers would come to share his vision as fully as he did, as the boy had, and Rome would tremble as it beheld a tide of those it had treated as little more than things rise up to overwhelm the empire.

Ajax allowed himself a moment to indulge in the dream of Rome being crushed beneath his heel. Then he reined in his imagination and focused on the immediate future. A small battle had been won.

Now was the time to exploit the victory, before the Romans could recover from the shock of the defeat.

As the fires died down, the slaves finished the last scraps of their feast and drank the last of the wine. Some began to sing, fragments of songs remembered from the time before they or their forebears had been slaves. Songs fromevery corner of the empire, and the melodies and rhythms, often strange to his ear, moved Ajax deeply.

Truly there was no corner of the earth that had not felt the scourge of Rome. Once more his heart was filled with cold, cold rage and a thirst for revenge.

Returning to the centre of the camp, he climbed on to a wagon piled high with captured equipment and stood atop the driver's bench, sword in one hand, the standard of the Batavian cohort in the other. He clattered the blade against the silver disc bearing an image of the emperor. The surrounding crowd turned towards the sound and began to fall silent, watching their leader expectantly. Ajax lowered his sword and stared out over the sea of faces, dimly lit by the wavering glow of the dying fires. Filling his lungs, he began.

'You have feasted on the best meat, the best wine and the best delicacies that we have taken from those who were our masters. Tell me, what is it that has the best taste tonight?'

'Roast mutton!' a voice cried, and scores of others called out their agreement.

'Garum!' cried another.

'Figs!'

'My girl's cunt!' some one shouted, and there was a roar of laughter.

Ajax clattered his sword against the standard again to silence them.

'You are all wrong! I'll tell you what tastes best and sweetest to every one of us tonight… Liberty! Liberty!'

The crowd cheered, thrusting their fists into the air as they echoed the cry. 'Liberty!'

When the cheering had died down, Ajax continued.' My friends, we have won the first of many fights. But not without cost. We fought with clubs and farming tools against men in armour with swords and spears. Now their weapons are ours, and when we next fight the Romans it will be on far more even terms. No! The next fight will be on our terms. They have grown fat and complacent on the back of our labour and suffering. They cannot match the determination of those who fight for their freedom. That is why they will lose. That is why we shall triumph!'

More cheering greeted his words. Ajax indulged them a moment before he raised his sword and called for quiet.

'My friends, we have tasted liberty, and now victory, but our work is only just beginning. I have a plan. We will demand that our freedom be recognised. We will demand that the Romans give us safe passage out of their empire. Now, it is just possible that they may be inclined to refuse such a reasonable request…'

The crowd laughed and jeered for a moment before Ajax continued.

'So, my friends, we must teach them a lesson, to prove how serious our demands are. Tomorrow I will lead an army off this hill and out on to the plain. Within days I will show the Romans that their defeat last night was no accident. I will give them another defeat that will shatter their arrogance and humble them. In a few days they will learn just how terrible our revenge can be… Then they will be forced to me et our demands. If they don't, then I give you my word that we shall slaughter every last Roman on the island.' He thrust his sword into the heavens. 'Death to Rome! Death to Rome!'

The crowd took up the chant, and it thundered out into the night, strident and challenging, daring Rome to defy them.

Ajax climbed down from the wagon and strolled over to Chilo.

'Time to complete the night's entertainment, I think. Have the men bring out my little pet.'

'My pleasure.' Chilo grinned. He turned away, gesturing to a handful of his men, who followed him inside Ajax's tent. They emerged a moment later carrying an iron cage. As the crowd saw the cage they edged forward, forming a loose circle around it. As Chilo and his men set it down in the glow of the cooking fires, Ajax stepped up to the cage and looked through the bars. Inside he could make out a human form, visible in the slats of orange light passing through the bars. The figure was naked and bruised and sat with her arms hugged round her knees as strands of matted hair hung down over her fleshy body.

'My lady Antonia, thank you for joining us,' Ajax mocked. 'I am sorry that you have missed the feast, but you have not missed all the entertainment. I have saved the best until last, in your honour. I know your pleasures well enough. All those months I had to service you like some rutting bull. You have no idea how much the thought of you and your soft, weak, fat body has revolted me. You have wasted my seed, and soiled me. Now it is your turn to be soiled.' He clicked his fingers at Chilo. 'Get her out!'

Chilo cut the ties that fastened the door to the cage and reached in to drag the former governor's wife out. She put up a pathetic struggle and then collapsed on the ground at the feet of Ajax as some of the crowd wolf-whistled.

'I'll be kind.' Ajax smiled coldly. 'I'll let you choose. On your back, or on all fours.'

She stared up at him with terrified eyes, her lips quivering. 'I beg you, spare me. Please.'

'No.'

'Then why did you save me? When the earthquake struck, you came for me in the garden. Why?'

'For this moment, my lady. Yes, in a way I saved you. I saved you so I could have my revenge for the indignity of being your toy. I saved you for these men.' Ajax indicated Chilo and his companions, who were grinning cruelly. 'Take her, use her in any way you want, and when you're done, throw her body down into the ravine with the others.'

Ajax turned away and strode back towards his tent. Behind him the crowd looked on as Chilo had two of his men hold the Roman woman face down on the bare ground. A moment later the first of her shrill screams of terror and agony filled the night.