The Damned Page 2

  Casca wondered who had the most courage – one who would die without raising a hand for his gods or the others. He settled down in a corner of the cell after kicking a couple of others out of the way to make room. He had been separated from the villagers by the decurion who, once he saw the scars on him, knew he was a fighter and put him in the cells with the Germans and Goths.

  The stench of fouled straw covering the stones of the cells did nothing to make him feel any better; his stomach was growling and he had a hangover. He tried to make himself as comfortable as possible and get some sleep before the games opened on the following morning.

  He knew it would be vastly different from the last time he had fought in the arena. These peasants had no experience with weapons. They would simply hack clumsily at each other until they made a lucky blow or their opponent dropped from exhaustion. If they were lucky, they would be matched up against one of the barbarians who would more than likely put a quick end to their anguish.

  Casca thought back on his days in the arena. It had been brutal, true, but at least there had been a sense of professionalism among the combatants. The training style at the schools, where they entered at tyros and left as professional gladiators, at least gave them options either to die on the sands, find freedom with the gift of the wooden sword, or even a chance to acquire great wealth by betting on themselves.

  One of the Germans in the cage next to him spoke to him through the bars. His voice was rough, almost a choking whisper, as if he hadn't had water for a long time. Then Casca saw the reason. There was a fresh scar on the Barbarian's throat where the edge of a blade had almost opened the windpipe. The warrior was still fit looking, wearing the homespun red trousers of his tribe and a leather vest. The gray streaks in his fair hair said that here was one who had survived much and lived longer than most of his people.

  "Roman, are you ready to die in the morning?" A smile followed his throaty question.

  Casca merely nodded his head. "I've been ready a lot longer than you will ever be, Suevii," he answered the barbarian in his own tongue.

  The German was surprised. It was rare for a Latin to know any speech but his own.

  "You speak our tongue well, Roman. Have you spent time beyond the Rhine or Danube?"

  Casca nodded. "A long time."

  "As a slave?"

  "No, my furry faced friend, as a warrior."

  The German whistled between his teeth, the front two of which were missing. He took a closer look at the object of his attention, the scarred face, thick wrist cords, and muscled neck. "Then you must be a good fighter, for the northlands have no love for the sons of Caesar."

  Casca grunted. "You'll find out tomorrow, so why talk about it? There is little likelihood that any of us will ever be set free since they forbid the wooden sword. What difference would it make if you won or lost?"

  The German hesitated a moment. Then, making up his mind, he said, "Listen to me. There may yet be a chance for us to make our way out of here. It has been said that the Emperor often takes men from the arena into his personal guard if they fight well enough. He has many enemies in Rome and doesn't trust anyone. He feels safer with men who owe their lives to him. Tomorrow we might have a chance if we can attract his attention."

  Casca perked up. "What's your plan?"

  "We become swordmates against all comers. Let the weaklings finish each other off. We lay back until only the best are left; then we make our move and challenge the lot of them. There won't be more than four or five of them. We will have little trouble between us. I think we will have a good chance of winning. Like most cowards, Honorius is impressed with bravery; he thinks he can buy it. Let's give him, a show! What say you, Roman?"

  Casca thought it over a moment. Hell, he hadn't had any better offers lately. "Agreed. But only if you swear by all the gods of the Aesir and on your father's name that you'll be true until this thing is done."

  The German smiled. "You have spent much time in the black forests. Be it so sworn, on my father's name and the gods of the Aesir, that I will hold my faith with you. This I swear, as my name is Vergix of the Suevii, a councilor and war chieftain of the tribes. But you, Roman, what do you swear by?"

  Casca laughed bitterly. "I swear by one eyed Odin All Father, by Loki, Jupiter, Zeus, Ahura Mazda, and a dozen others you have never heard of. I swear by them all."

  Vergix frowned. "It is not good to take the will of the gods lightly, Roman, but I accept your word. From this time, we are swordmates against all comers, even those of our own tribes." The two shook hands in the Roman manner to settle their agreement, wrist to wrist, and each lay back to get what sleep he could.

  Casca slept as usual, his rest troubled by dreams. Rarely could he sleep a night through without the ghosts of his past coming to disturb his rest. He awoke before the first light, eyes sticky and sore. Rolling over on his straw covering he looked straight at Vergix. "What time's chow?"

  Vergix indicated with his head and Casca saw that several slaves were entering the confines of the holding pens carrying steaming pots. One of the slaves passed out wooden bowls as those behind ladled out their only meal. A thick mixture of boiled barley and pig slopped into Casca's bowl. It was not appetizing, but it would fill the gut and they knew they would need the strength later in the day. As Casca shoveled the food into his mouth with his fingers, he heard a distant rumbling. For a moment, he thought it was Vergix's stomach growling; then it came again, louder, a deep throated coughing that could only come from the lungs of a lion. Vergix noticed his attention. "There will be beasts in the arena today. How many or what kind, I don't know."

  Casca called over one of the serving slaves. "What time do the games start?"

  The slave, a Dalmatian, shook his head. "Don't be in a rush. You and the others won't go on until after the heat of day settles. You should be pleased; you are going to be the main attraction!"

  Casca threw his bowl at the slave. "Smart ass goat herder! I hope you lose every tooth in your head but one and have an ache in it for the rest of your life!"

  Vergix chuckled at Casca's curse. "You have a mean streak, Roman, but if you didn't notice, the man is already toothless!"

  Before noon, armed guards came in and began separating the men into groups; those who were old or disabled were put into one group and taken away. Shortly afterwards, they heard the sounds of the crowd roaring in pleasure and cries of dying men as they were fed to the beasts.

  Those who were fit enough to fight were taken one at a time into an anteroom where they were outfitted in armor left over from the days when gladiators were treated like prized animals. Casca took the familiar helmet of the Galli with its fish crested crown and perforated steel facemask.

  Expertly, he checked over his equipment, exchanging one set of steel mesh wrapping for his sword arm for another. Quickly, he tied the straps on properly, swinging his arm to see if it limited his motion. Satisfied after a couple of minor adjustments, he then selected a set of Thracian style brass greaves to protect his legs and a wide leather embossed belt that buckled in the back. His weapons would be given to him later.

  The guards noticed his expert familiarity with the gladiatorial armor and made notes to lay bets on his winning against whomever he fought. Vergix also saw his new ally's familiarity and was pleased that his judgment of the man had been accurate. For himself, he chose that which he was most familiar with, and which would also make him stand out in the crowd when he and Casca made their play, a massive horned helmet with a brass strip running from the crest down to protect the nose.

  As they were getting outfitted, the cries of dying animals reached them from the arena. The beasterii had been sent in to finish off the lions and leopards. It would be time now for the audience to take a break and get lunch from the vendors outside the arena, and talk over the morning's show.

  The Emperor hadn't shown up for the morning games, but would be there to open the proceedings after lunch. This gave the arena attendants time to clean up a bit
and spread fresh sand after hauling off, on long hooks, the remains of man and beast.

  Many Christians refused to attend these slaughters, but even more did come and found great satisfaction in watching the heathens destroy themselves. Fresh in their minds still rang the screams of their own brethren. Revenge lies solid within the breasts of most men, and no amount of erudite philosophy and sanctimonious moralizing can cover it up completely. They found enough reasons for their attending some to witness the final destruction of the heathen, others for the sheer pleasure of it, which they hid behind pious mottoes and phrases.

  From the arms rooms, those next to fight were escorted to the cages next to the gates that opened onto the sands. Casca felt a familiar quickening of the pulse; the smell of blood was still on the warm air. Staying to himself, he began to exercise to loosen up muscles stiff from his night's sleep on the floor. Vergix merely sat in the shade and wished for a horn of ale before going out.

  A fanfare of trumpets announced the arrival of the Emperor. Honorius, escorted by a squad of praetorians nodded pleasantly to the acclamations of the crowd.

  Honorius, son of Theodosius, whose edicts against paganism he was enforcing in order to provide this day's entertainment, was a troubled man. He had none of the strength of the Caesars in his blood. His body was weak and soft. He had never fought in battle or faced any danger other than that of the court. His eyes were lackluster under the pressures of his office. Soft hands trembled as they gripped each other. The wreath of his forehead accented his thinning hair.

  His role was not one he relished, but once he had power, there was no way for him to be able to give it up and live. Even if he abdicated, he knew that his successor would have him killed to prevent him ever being able to challenge him in the future.

  The Visigoths, Vandals and a dozen other savage tribes on his borders, gave him ulcers. He didn't know what to do about them. But perhaps they would stay in Greece where Arcadius had granted them sanctuary. He wished that Stilicho would leave him alone with his constant warnings that the Goths were going to come against him soon. He needed this day's spectacle to reinforce his subjects' confidence in him and their savior, Jesus.

  Today, he did have few barbarians to display along with those he had proscribed for their idolatry. Of course, he made sure the first Goths to enter the arena wouldn't be able to fight too well against his chosen favorites.

  He had ordered the Goths to have one bone of their forearms broken, so that they could still carry their weapons. He knew the warlike spirit of the barbarians they would have gone into battle with nothing but their teeth. He sighed deeply. If only Rome still had a small portion of that spirit. Instead, he constantly received complaints that the armor was too heavy and marches too long. The only soldiers worth a damn were from the provinces.

  But enough of that! This day, he was still Emperor of the city of the Caesars and secure behind the shields of his praetorians, most of whom were barbarians from tribes hostile to the Goths, or condemned criminals he had saved from death. He knew they owed their lives to him, and he had made it quite clear that when he died his will would make certain that they died also. They and their families lived only while he did. Honorius was not particularly bright, but he did understand fear and self-survival.

  He was escorted to his box, decorated with royal purple and crucifixes set under a bronze Roman eagle. From his box, he addressed himself to the gamesmaster and, without further ceremony, gave the signal for the games to continue. He was uncomfortable with public speaking and tried his best to avoid it whenever possible.

  The prisoners in the holding cages were given their choice of weapons as they were admitted to the arena. Vergix chose a battle axe, single bladed with a wooden haft and spiked end. Casca took a long blade, similar in heft and feel to the gladius iberius he was most familiar with.

  Before the fighters were admitted to the arena, they were told to line up, march out and to try to at least look as if they knew what they were doing. Legionnaires lined the way to the arena with drawn weapons and more legionnaires stood by in case the prisoners showed any signs of rebellion. Several of the would-be fighters were in such terror that they had to be prodded into the arena with red hot irons. But all showed, not in the neat military line of the professional, but rather as frightened stragglers, or as bewildered but hostile barbarians.

  Casca motioned for Vergix to follow his lead and keep in step with him. The two led the way onto the hot sands, ignoring the other contestants. Vergix kept close to Casca, following his every move. With sunlight flashing off their bared weapons and armor, the two marched straight across the arena to where Imperial Caesar sat with his retinue. The two stopped about twenty feet away from the royal box. Vergix kept his eye on the Roman and followed when Casca raised his blade in salute.

  "Ave Caesar. Te moritu salutus."

  It was the almost forgotten salute of the gladiators to the Emperor: "Hail, Caesar. We who are about to die salute you!"

  Honorius was surprised and more than a little pleased at this ancient act of honor to his royal person. These two would bear watching.

  They were all herded back into their pens to wait their time to fight, with the exception of the twenty Goths who had had their arms broken. They were formed into a rough line, dressed in their native costumes iron helmets, hide shields and scraps of armor. They looked fierce enough, but they would be no match for the elite troop of Roman legionnaires who marched in smart order toward a symbolic victory.

  Casca had to admit that the legionnaires did look pretty good; they must be from the household guards. They were in full armor, carrying pilums, the Roman spear, and short swords sheathed on their rights sides. There were an equal number of Romans and Goths. The legionnaires, under the command of a centurion, were resplendent in silver embossed armor and plumed helmets. They faced their bewildered and crippled opponents who huddled together like wounded animals. This was the opening act, and Honorius always wanted the first show to be good.

  The legionnaires held their pilums ready, with shields to the front. When they had advanced to about thirty paces, they halted. The Goths began to see what was going to happen and started to spread out, holding their axes and long swords to the front. Before they could scatter, the centurion gave the command to throw, and the legionnaires hurled their spears, drew their swords, and advanced, while the pilums were still in flight. Five of the Goths went down under the barrage. The heavy weighted points of the pilums penetrated the hide shields with ease. Even so, the Goths rallied and tried their best to take as many of the hated Romans with them as they could. Even with broken arms, they managed to drag down six legionnaires and finish them off before falling themselves.

  The mock battle lasted little more than a few minutes and the Romans, naturally, were victorious. The crowd loved it, and threw garlands of flowers into the arena to honor their heroes.

  Honorius was a little pissed off that, even wounded, the Goths had managed to kill so many of his men. But anyway, the crowd was pleased, and he made the gesture of tossing a bag of silver to the commanding centurion to be divided among the men. The centurion saluted with his bloody sword, and proudly led his men from the field of slaughter.

  Casca spat in disgust. As they went by, he called to the centurion: "Like to try me and my friend? Our arms aren't broken!"

  The centurion flushed and tried to act as if he hadn't heard the jibe as they continued marching from the arena.

  The time had come! The pagans were to be next on the agenda. They were admitted to the ring without even the customary drink of posca to cleanse their mouths. Casca and Vergix moved out fast to the far side of the arena, where they stood side by side, waiting and conserving their energy. Casca noticed that the statues to the gods were gone from their customary places around the arena.

  The barbarians, by unspoken agreement, banded together in a group, eleven of them. Wolf-like, they started the fight by going after their frightened Latin opponents, few of whom had ev
er held a sword in their hands before. They went down under the blades and axes of the barbarians like sheep, calling for mercy and raising their hands in supplication, only to be jeered for their cowardice. The crowd pointed out to each other the difference between the courage of the Christian legion and the cowardly Roman pagans. They didn't seem to notice that the Goths were pagans too but were by no means cowardly, nor were the Germans of the Allemanni, Suevii and Marcomanni tribes, who hunted and killed Romans like so many sheep.

  Twice, Latins tried to take shelter behind the scar faced man and his fierce looking companion, but Casca and Vergix drove them off, sending them back into the battle. Of the eleven barbarians, three died from lucky blows struck blindly in panic, four others suffered minor incapacitating wounds that would slow them down a bit. While the others were liquidating each other, Casca and Vergix stood apart, oblivious to the jeers of the crowd. The only reaction from the crowd in their favor was when ring attendants came out with hot irons to urge them to fight and were chased back to the safety of the holding pens. At this, the crowd realized that the two were waiting for something better.

  When the barbarians had finished off the sheep, they at last turned their attention to the Roman and the traitor. The crowd grew silent; they knew they were about to see real fighting.

  Honorius leaned over. His vacuous eyes lit with real interest for the first time. Casca and Vergix moved their backs near the wall to prevent their opponents from getting behind them. The tribesmen formed a half circle. In a rush, they charged, only to find they were getting in each other's way. Three fell in that first rush; two to Vergix's axe, which split one's head open to the neck. He laid another's belly open, leaving him to crawl across the arena to die, trailing a ribbon of bloody intestines, jaws snapping at the sand.