Casca 7: The Damned (2 page)

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 ever 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.

The five barbarians backed off. The crowd began
cheering, making wagers on how many the two against the wall would kill before they fell.

Casca spoke through clenched teeth to Vergix: "Now is the time to put the pressure on. They should be getting tired. From the look of them, they have been on short rations for some time. Keep moving and stay close to me."

Casca held his round shield low to the front. He lunged forward, striking first with the shield then with the sword. Vergix by his side, the two beat the barbarians back, cutting down one who had been slowed up by earlier wounds.

The two remaining tribesmen rallied enough to create a breathing space. The crowd fell silent again.

The surviving Germanics were hard looking men who had reconciled themselves to their fates. One of them, a. Vandal, came forward, a curve bladed sica and round buckler held before him. He had a heavily muscled chest and arms. A single long braid of blondish gray hair hung from under his iron helmet to reach to his shoulders. The other, a red haired warrior from the tribe of the Marcomanni, came with him carrying an axe the same as Vergix's.

There was a feeling of expectancy in the stands as the men on the sands sized each other up, waiting...  The Vandal threw back his head and screamed "Wotan!" then hurled himself at Casca. The Marcomanni followed. It was sword against sword, axe against axe, as the four closed together in a struggle that could have only one ending. They fought without anger, just cold determination to kill before they died.

The Vandal drove Casca back, hacking a gouge out of his shield. His strength was great but it was the last of his reserves and he knew it. He rushed again, forcing Casca to his knees by nearly slicing off his face.

But a man who is not afraid to die, or who already considers himself dead, is doubly dangerous, especially when he knows his craft.

The Vandal lunged in with a straight thrust that Casca barely managed to block with his shield. The Vandal's sword stuck in it point first. Casca unexpectedly let loose of his shield. The weight of it forced the Vandal's blade down before he could free it. That was all the time he needed. One straight lunge and his sword entered half its length into the hard striated muscles of the Vandal's stomach. As he fell to his knees, his weight pulled the blade out.