The Eagles 2, page 2
part #1 of The Eagles Series
‘Of what?’ Julianus smiled slyly. ‘The combat or tonight?’
Glaucus returned the smile, reaching out to stroke the oiled curls of his companion.
‘Of both, my little gladiator. I anticipate every thrust of the sword with delight.’
Julianus reached up to touch the hand stroking his hair, leaning his head against the weight until it rested on Glaucus’s shoulder.
‘And what shall I be?’ he simpered, ‘a retiarius to net you, or a secutor to pursue you?’
‘Let us watch the fights,’ murmured Glaucus, conscious of a sudden stirring beneath the folds of his toga, ‘and then decide.’
Across the arena Comus spat through the bars of a gate and turned to glance at Vulpus.
‘Look at them, Vulpus. That’s what you’re fighting for: a boy-lover and his primping friend. Men who think they’re women, perverts who’ll invite you to bed them if you win.’
‘I’ll win,’ said Vulpus calmly, ‘but my bed will carry a woman. And it’s not Glaucus and his lover I fight for.’
‘Then for what?’ demanded Comus.
‘Money,’ answered the gladiator simply, ‘four hundred aurei when I win and three hundred more in bets. That’s what I fight for, Comus.’
‘Charon’s hammer!’ snarled the old man. ‘You’re cold as steel, Vulpus. What kind of man enters the arena of his own choice? What does it offer you? Money? Women? I’ve had both, but I tell you now that if I’d had a choice, I’d have stayed on my farm, not put myself out to be crippled by a tiger.’
He spat again and reached for the wineskin hanging close on the stone wall.
‘No, Vulpus. If I’d not stuck a dagger in that fat landlord’s belly and been convicted, I’d be on that farm now, getting fat with my woman. Not here.’
Vulpus did not bother to reply, he was watching the gladiators out in the circle, his eyes cold with professional interest. He had heard of the retiarius called Alexander, heard that the man was the best with a net and trident, and he wanted to watch his technique. One day they might be matched together, and on that day a knowledge of the net man’s style could give Vulpus the advantage. It was that kind of knowledge that helped a gladiator stay alive.
Comus was still mumbling about pederasts as he guzzled bis wine, but Vulpus ignored him. The old man had been, in bis day, the finest bestiarius alive, famous for his handling of the big cats. Once, Vulpus had seen him kill a Spanish bull with his bare hands, evading the charges of the needle-horned creature until he could hurl himself across its neck, wrapping his arms around the two columns of deadly bone and dragging the animal down, twisting, until its massive neck snapped and it lay still. But since the tiger that ripped bis arm loose of its socket, Comus had turned to the wine flask, sinking ever lower until now he was merely an attendant, seeing to the needs of the animals he had once fought and killed. But for all his wine-guzzling, the old man remained an invaluable source of information; that was why Vulpus had sought him out and fed his thirst while he picked his brains.
Out on the sand Alexander had twined his net around the ankles of the secutor, hauling the armoured man off balance to stretch him full-length.
The retiarius lunged forwards, trident snaking for the uncovered flesh between breastplate and helmet. The crowd lifted to its feet, howling. Poppaea dropped the sweetmeat she was chewing and yelled with her companions.
But the secutor failed to die.
Instead, he dipped his head, bringing the helmet down to cover his vulnerable neck as he swung his heavy shield across to knock the trident from its lethal path.
It was a superb tactic, the instinctive reaction of a trained gladiator, and Vulpus, watching, applauded in his mind. But it was done at cost, for the trident lifted up and to the right, the prongs smashing through the grill of the secutor’s helmet, driven deep by the weight of the retiarius’s body. They withdrew bloodied as the armoured gladiator screamed and fell back, bis helmet shining crimson in the afternoon sun.
Even as he screamed, he swung his sword to cut the thong binding the net to Alexander’s wrist Severed, the net fell loose, releasing the tension that held the retiarius upright.
Alexander, losing his balance, fell back, allowing his opponent to struggle free of the encumbering folds of the net as both men fought to regain their balance. They came to their feet together, the net stretched between them, balancing the odds of the combat. Alexander, deprived of his net, had only his trident and pugio with which to defend himself against the armoured secutor, With gladius and shield. But the secutor was now one-eyed and gasping in pain.
Poppaea felt a familiar dampness around her thighs as she rose to her feet, screaming for the retiarius to close for the kill. She had five aurei riding on Alexander and as much as she wished to win her bet, she wanted more to see blood flow.
Her wish was granted as the two men closed, and Poppaea revised her opinions of provincial arenas. Sextus Glaucus had advertised the combats as being to the death, and his boast was proving true. The darting sword of the secutor showed that as it hacked flesh from Alexander’s shoulder. The helmeted man smashed the trident away to the side with his shield, took the dagger’s thrust on his protected right arm, and shoved his gladius deep into his opponent’s armpit, going in under the shoulder armour.
The muscles severed, Alexander let his left arm hang by his side, the pugio dropping from nerveless fingers as he backed away from the deadly sword.
The secutor, his head turned to one side so that he could see through the blood clotting his helmet, advanced, shield lifted to cover his body, gladius probing towards the trident of the other man. Alexander retreated, near helpless without his net, using his trident in a desperate attempt to fend off the lusting sword of the secutor.
Then even that defence was gone, the handle broken by the heavy shield. Blood trickled from Alexander’s shoulder as he raised his right hand, palm towards the editor, in request for mercy. It was a wasted gesture: Glaucus had promised fights to the death, and the crowd would take nothing less. Already, the cavea was on its feet, struggling for a clear view of the kill as a forest of arms lifted, thumbs pointing down. Glaucus shrugged, watching the two men Waiting on the sand below. With a casual movement that belied his thoughts of the cost the lanista would demand for his best net man, he clenched his fist, the thumb down.
Alexander dropped his suppliant arm as the secutor advanced. Falling to his knees, he threw back his head, awaiting the final blow.
It came swift and deadly as a cobra’s kiss, slitting the man’s throat in one deft stroke of the gladius as the crowd roared its approval. Alexander collapsed onto the bloodstained sand and the secutor stood back, turning his helmet to bring the scurrying attendants into range of his remaining eye. The brand was applied to the corpse and two slaves dragged it across the arena to the Porta Libitinensis as the victor strode away, ignoring the white-tunicked attendants hurrying to rake the sand smooth for the next combat.
High in the stands Poppaea sat back, thankful for the perfumed water being sprinkled over the audience, and selected a fresh sweetmeat from the box beside her. Two more fights, she thought with pleasant anticipation, and then Vulpus. She arranged her robe so that the damp patch did not irritate her thighs and waited.
Below her, lolling back in the editor’s box, Glaucus turned to his companion.
‘Well, my dear Julianus,’ he murmured, his eyes bright, ‘do you approve so far?’
‘Your taste is excellent,’ smiled the boy, placing his hand over his lover’s, ‘but, as usual, the best is still to come.’
‘Vulpus?’ asked Glaucus. ‘You’ve seen him before?’
‘Twice.’ Julianus licked his lips at the memory, smudging the rouge that decorated his cheeks. ‘When I was in Rome. Oh, Glaucus, those were fights! What a man he is, what a killer.’
Piqued at Julianus’s obvious attraction to the gladiator, the older man muttered a non-committal reply and focused his gaze on the combat.
In the maze of rooms and passageways that ran, like some man-made rabbit warren, beneath the amphitheatre, the object of Julianus’s affection was staring moodily at a large metal cage.
Behind the bars a gigantic tiger paced angrily to and fro, a rumbling growl marking its passage around the confines of its prison. Beside Vulpus, old Comus eyed the beast with professional interest.
‘He’s big, Vulpus,’ he remarked, ‘even bigger than the one that got me. Can you handle him?’
‘I’ll kill him, old man,’ said Vulpus evenly, ‘and you’ll win your bet. Don’t worry.’
Comus laughed, provoking a roar from the tiger that sent a nearby slave scuttering hastily for the door.
‘It’s said easily, my friend.’ He turned speculative eyes on his companion, noting the hard-limned muscles of his arms, the tracery of scars showing white against the tan of his chest. ‘But the doing of it comes harder. The lion we saw, that’s called the King of the Beasts; but it’s not. The tiger is the real king. Look at him, Vulpus. See how he hates, how he lusts to kill. Is your will stronger?’
‘I shall kill him,’ said Vulpus shortly, turning away from his study of the animal.
Comus followed him, shuffling after the tall man as they headed for the robing room. The other combatants were gone, either through the Gate of Death or to await their turn in the circle, and Vulpus was able to prepare himself in solitude.
He removed the chlamys he had worn since the opening parade and belted a short, leather loin-cloth around his waist. The manicae followed, the metal-plated leather wrapping around his right arm, held in position by a band encircling his chest. Then the balteus, the wide-banded leather going around his midriff, over the loin-cloth. He had agreed to fight naked of any other armour, his only weapon the gladius which, by tradition, was waiting for him in the armoury. He went there next, Comus still pattering behind him.
In the arena, a Thracian faced a secutor, curved sword and circular shield pitted against the heavier armour, rectangular shield and gladius of the helmeted man.
Vulpus ignored them, studying instead, the shields stacked against the wall of the little room. He selected a medium-sized, rectangular shield, similar to, but smaller than those carried by the legions. Setting it to one side, he accepted his sword from a waiting slave, testing the edge and point, his face calm and cold in the dim light of the room. The fight, he knew, would be hard and he wished for complete mobility when he faced the tiger. The taller shield carried by the hoplomachi would have afforded a greater degree of protection, but its sheer weight would slow his movement when speed was a vital factor of survival. Setting shield and sword to one side, he knotted a leather band around his forehead to prevent sweat from clouding his vision and sat down on a stone bench.
A slave brought him an orange, peeled and cut in two halves. One piece, Vulpus ate; the other he crushed, grinding the pulpy fruit between bis hands. He tossed the segment aside and rubbed his palms together, finally wiping them on a cloth proffered by a silent attendant. The orange imparted a tackiness to his grip that would not fade when heat and exertion sent rivulets of perspiration down his arms; it was an old gladiator’s trick, taught him by one-eyed Argos in the misty days of his youth.
Satisfied with his preparations, Vulpus sat back calmly, waiting.
The penultimate combat ended as the Thracian sank his blade deep into the chest of the secutor, standing back as the armoured fighter sprayed blood from his ruptured heart and toppled over, another traveller on Charon’s ferry.
Then it was the time of the Fox.
He needed no attendant to alert him, for the rumbling of the crowd gave him all the warning he needed.
‘Vulpus. Vulpus! VULPUS!’
The sound began slow and low, gaining in volume as the massed ranks of the cavea took it up, screaming his name like a religious chant. He climbed to his feet and walked out through the low portal into the sunlight, a demigod come to demonstrate his immortality to his worshippers.
Briefly he paused, letting his eyes adjust to the brightness, touching the lucky stone corded around his neck. It was a long time ago that Boudicca, his proud, dead aunt, had given that stone to a boy called Marcus, but boy and man, he had worn it ever since.
‘VULPUS! VULPUS! VULPUS!’
The shouting drowned out the creaking noises echoing from the belly of the amphitheatre, where slaves turned the pulley wheels that were lifting a cage towards the arena. It drowned out the roaring of the beast confined in the cage. It rebounded off the stone wall encircling the sand, buffeting his ears in clamorous waves of adoration. Adoration that was tainted with speculation: would the mighty Vulpus survive this fight? Or would his followers see, at last, the Fox’s blood?
Then the shouting died. The eyes of the crowd turned to the gate Vulpus had been watching since he entered the arena. It was dark, and noisy with the furious growling of an enraged animal.
Abruptly, like a great striped stone hurled from a ballista, the tiger erupted through the gate. Out in the open, it appeared even bigger than Vulpus remembered, the jaws wide enough to encompass a man’s chest, the legs four pistons tipped with sword-blades. Feral yellow eyes surveyed the beast’s new prison as its tail lashed angrily back and forth. It began to pace along the bottom of the wall, snarling viciously the while, as Vulpus stood silent, waiting, at the centre.
The beast saw him and a gasp rose from the audience as it launched itself in a bounding charge straight at the man.
Massive legs catapulted the tiger through the air, jaws agape and forepaws reaching out to grasp and rend, to bring the vulnerable belly into reach of the hind claws. Vulpus knew what those scythes would do to his flesh should they reach him and for an instant he saw again the ravaged face of the slave on the dock. As the beast’s leap reached its apex, he darted forwards and to one side, slashing upwards with the gladius.
The blow turned on the tiger’s ribs, smearing the tawny fur with crimson, serving only to enrage it further.
Vulpus backed away as it landed, twisting around in the air to come down facing him. He watched ears flatten back against the great skull, tail lash like a whip, sensing, rather than seeing, the muscles tense beneath the striped hide.
‘Watch the ears and the tail,’ Comus had warned him, ‘they’ll tell you when it plans to attack.’
The advice was sound, for the tiger launched itself a second time, faster than seemed possible, saliva frothing from its mouth as it arrowed at the gladiator. Again, Vulpus shifted his position, lifting the shield to protect bis head from the flailing hind paws as he cut at the stomach. The blow did no more damage than the first, but the force of the paw that landed on his shield knocked Vulpus off balance.
He staggered as the tiger whirled, lashing out a forepaw that smashed his feet from under him so that he fell heavily, four deep gashes decorating his left calf with lines of crimson.
‘Hoc habet!’ The crowd rose. ‘He’s dead!’
The great cat came at him like an echo of the shout, a wave of fetid breath gusting against his face. Even as it came, Vulpus drew his knees up tight against his stomach, bringing the shield across his body. The weight that landed on him blew air from his lungs and he felt fire rip across his sword-arm. But the gladius drove up and sideways, thrusting into the exposed underside of the cat’s shoulder. Tearing the blade free, Vulpus braced his legs against the shield and pushed.
It was a formidable effort, for the animal outweighed the man several times over. But Vulpus was hardened by long years of fighting, his reflexes honed as fine as the sword’s edge, and he shifted the weight.
The tiger slid off the shield as the man rolled, bringing the rectangle of metal up to fend off the slashing blow that would have pulped his head had it landed. Instead, it hit the shield, was countered by the sword, and Vulpus was on his feet again, driving the attack to the animal.
‘Vulpus, Vulpus.’ Poppaea’s acclamation was an orgasmic mumble, mouthed around the fingers cramming between her lips. Without thinking, she had reached out to clutch the shoulder of the woman next to her, her excitement demanding the release of human contact Her companion was oblivious of the plump hand gripping her, for she was finding her own release in the fingers that burrowed beneath her robe.
In the editor’s box, Glaucus and Julianus clutched each other, searching, stroking, as their glazed eyes followed the drama below.
Vulpus was unaware of the crowd, his concentration fixed exclusively on the animal backing away from his attack. His own mouth was stretched wide in a snarl that matched the tiger’s as he blocked the paws batting at him, thrusting blow for blow with the sword. He was bleeding badly from the lacerations on his calf, and the claws that ripped through the manicae had damaged his right arm, but now the killing fury was upon him, blocking out pain in the consuming desire to feel his gladius sink through flesh.
The tiger limped slightly from the wound in its shoulder, and blood decorated its coat in several places, but its strength remained unabated. Frustrated in its lust to kill, it backed away from the man, growling deep in its throat as it lashed at the shifting, bloodied sword that darted, like some irritating insect, at its muzzle.
Suddenly it turned and loped away to the far side of the arena, crouching in feline watchfulness as it licked at its wounds.
Vulpus stalked after the beast as the arena attendants approached it with flaming brands. One slave ventured too close, screaming as a paw flashed out to pull him closer still. The tiger rolled over, holding the man against its chest with its forepaws, its jaws closing around his head even as the hindlegs reached up to disembowel him. Vulpus broke into a run, but as he reached the struggling figures he saw a great gush of entrails explode from the slave’s belly. A wash of red flooded across the tiger and it pumped its legs, sending a rain of bloody guts spattering over the sand. Its jaws came together, cutting off the gurgling moans of the dying man as his skull shattered.
