The Trident

Both ate sparingly. Once Sophrus acknowledged his opponent with a curt nod. Gaius blocked off the hubbub, retreating within himself, as he recalled the half dozen opponents he'd fought since Belenus. He'd killed everyone. Some he could have spared, but didn't. Instead he'd rushed to kill them before clemency could be granted, for that insured that future opponents would be intimidated giving him an advantage.

Women caressed him, pressing their breasts against him. Dozens propositioned him, a night of bliss for a man who might be dead tomorrow and for women who were titillated by the thought of being fucked by someone who would soon kill or be killed. Gaius smelled their perfumed flesh, felt the warmth and softness of them, but was indifferent to their animal allure. The world held no reality for him. He was like a dead man looking back on a previous existence that no longer held any relevance. He was a ghost among phantoms and not even twenty.

*

At the Gate of Life Gaius glanced at Sophrus.

"Wish me luck."

Sophrus smiled.

Weapons bearers and referees followed them into the arena as they were announced by the crier from the emperor's box. The orchestra played a stately theme set to stir the soul.

They marched to the center where the bearers handed them their weapons. Sophrus was given a murmillo's helmet since a Thracian helmet with the jutting head of a griffin was too easily snagged in the net.

For some moments the two men loosened up, then Spohrus assumed a rigid stance while Gaius began a slow walk circling him, his trident in his left hand, net folded in his right. All sound ceased from the orchestra. The spectators lost their tongues. The blue sky above was fleeced with fluffy white clouds. Only the faint sound of fountains spraying the air with perfumed water could be heard. Even the vendors stopped hawking their foodstuffs to watch. The number of people fucking or masturbating dropped dramatically.

Sophrus wasn't going to let him circulate. He closed. For up close the net couldn't be thrown, and held in one hand the trident lacked much of its offensive force.

Gaius changed his grip on the net grabbing it at the center so he could wield it like a whip. With his left hand he extended the trident to keep Sophrus from getting within striking distance with his sica. As he did so, he moved to Sophrus' left whipping the heavy net past his shield so that the lead-weighted rim bent around it striking Sophrus' unprotected shoulder with an audible thud forcing him to back off. A moan rose from those spectators who had bet on Sophrus when they saw him draw back unable to hold up his shield. Then shouted as Gaius charged him, but as he drew near Sophrus suddenly recovered to the astonishment of everyone and pivoting swiftly swung his shield against Gaius' trident knocking it aside while thrusting his sword into Gaius' stomach.

As the point entered, Gaius twisted his torso so that instead of going straight into him the blade was deflected to the side giving him only a flesh wound instead of a fatal one.

But seeing blood the crowd shouted, "Kill him! Kill him!"

Gaius dropped the net and grabbed the razor sharp blade tightly with his bare hand. At the same time he whacked the trident against Sophrus' helmet stunning him. Unable to pull the sword from Gaius' hand, Sophrus let go and backed off with nothing but his shield to protect him.

Now the crowd was eager for Sophrus' blood and roared with feral lust for his death.

Gaius hefted the sica in his right hand and, with the trident in his left, started toward Sophrus who made a valiant attempt to defend himself by swinging the shield like a club, but it was a futile effort. As he swung to block a thrust of the trident, Gaius cut the hamstring of his left leg with the sica. Hopping back, Sophrus suddenly stopped, shook his head slowly, then dropped his shield. It was finished. He didn't raise his hand for mercy.

The crowd roared.

Y

"You are Rome's greatest gladiator," Messalina said. She stroked Gaius' thigh, for a moment, with an ostrich feather. They were seated on a marble bench in the Garden of Sallust near Nerva's villa, once the domicile of Vespasian.

Spread over the hundreds of acres of rolling lawns were white marble nymphaeums; shimmering lime green ponds, rippling under a gentle breeze; spraying sunlit fountains sparkled with crystalline drops of water. Nearby Rameses II's obelisk pierced the turquoise sky. Across a walkway was the statue of the Dying Gaul. Gaius stared at the stone face accepting death as a gladiator without showing fear, his head drooping down, his weight resting on one arm slowly giving way.

"That won't be you," She said, reading his mind. She swatted a fly with the bushy feather.

For the moment," he replied. But she was uncertain to which of her statements he was referring. "Why did you want to see me today, Messalina?"

She gazed around nonchalantly. "How would you like to regain your family fortune?"

"Humph. Is your feather a magic wand?"

Messalina smiled. "Don't need one." She crossed her legs revealing a lot of shapely thigh as her tunic rose high. Gaius could feel the warmth of her and smell the freshly bathed cleanliness of her. She was like a drug he couldn't kick. A glittering encapsulating web of silver that would never let him go.

"There are people, very powerful people, who feel that Lucius Antonius was justified in his attempt to overthrow Domitian. And these people would be willing to restore your father's estate to you."

"In return for what?"

"You have become Domitian's personal bodyguard. Besides Parthenius you are the only member of his court allowed to wear a sword in his presence. Considering his paranoia about being assassinated that is no small thing." She placed her warm soft hand on his arm and looked into his eyes and whispered. "It would be an easy thing for you to kill him."

Gaius raised his eyebrows. "And then be crucified, if I were lucky."

She glanced aside and dropped her arm. "No. As I said there are powerful people who would protect you. You would be admired by all of Rome for getting rid of a tyrant."

"Maybe, but the emperor is loved by the praetorian guard, and they hold the real power of Rome in their hands. They would demand the death of any assassin."

"Then an assassin will be found to appease them." She touched his arm again. Her eyes narrowed. Her voice gritty. "Don't you want to be wealthy again? I know I do. And you would no longer have to risk your life in the arena before a blood thirsty howling mob."

She nodded toward the Dying Gaul. "That doesn't have to be you."

*

Euphrates the Stoic was a tall, elderly man of patrician looks with long white hair and a beard. He had just finished a light breakfast of bread, cheese, raisins and water, in one of the palace sun rooms overlooking the Circus, when a servant entered.

"Excellency, Apollonius has just been arrested disembarking a barge at the Aventine and taken to the Carcer. His disciple, Damis remains free."

Euphrates nudged the side of his thin straight nose with the middle knuckle of his forefinger as if musing, then nodded with a slight smile.

He dressed and made his way down the myriad gleaming halls of the palace until he came to the Emperor's private chambers. A guard announced him and ushered him into an opulent chamber where Domitian sat behind an onyx-topped desk with gold appointments going over some documents spread out on top.

"My Lord, Apollonius has just arrived with a disciple named Damis. He was arrested and taken to the Carcer as you wished."

"Excellent," Domitian exclaimed. Beaming, he lay down a gold pen and rubbed his hands together. "Excellent. We'll let him cool his heels there for a couple of days, then bring him here for questioning." Domitian picked up a sheaf of letters gesturing with them. "These are letters Apollonius wrote to Nerva and my ex-consuls, Rufus and Orfitus, counseling them to oppose tyranny. But there is no overt mention of assassination. So there is nothing I can do to them. I can't try them without evidence, and they are too well liked by the populace to punish them without a trial."

"But we do have damning evidence against Apollonius," Euphrates answered in his austere manner. He sacrificed a boy to learn the secrets of futurity in order to usurp you. His dress and manner are those of philosophers whom you have banished for their treasonable accusation against you. And he allows himself to be worshipped as a god when only your Majesty can have that title. When faced with these charges he will be willing to accuse Nerva and the others with plotting against you to save himself."

"But what if he maintains his innocence? For he has come to Rome voluntarily to face the accusations brought against him instead of going into hiding."

Euphrates gave a sly smile. "Not to worry, my Lord. For no one is easier to convict than an innocent man. He will have no defense since he is innocent whereas a guilty man cunningly prepares his defense because he is guilty."

*

"How long will we be here?" Damis asked Apollonius, as he stared about the dingy brick walls of the Carcer. Pale light came through a narrow opening high above. Below them, through a hole in the floor, was a lower level of the prison where prisoners were held for execution. On their level prisoners were being held for trial. The room they were in was roughly square shaped with a vaulted ceiling. About them were a dozen or so men and women in leg irons and handcuffs.

Apollonius didn't reply.

Across from them a pretty girl with blonde hair was slumped back against the wall, as if insensible, her head hanging toward the floor.

Damis couldn't take his eyes off her. She looked so innocent, so vulnerable and lost. "Why is she here?" Damis uttered, without being aware he spoke.

A thin prisoner, with rotting teeth, leaned toward him. "She killed her pimp." He grinned and drew a thumb across his throat."

"A whore? She doesn't look like one."

The thin man, shrugged, then coughed raggedly. "They'll feed her to the lions if convicted." He laughed crudely, white spittle bubbling on the corner of his lips. "They'll fuck her first, though. They always do the pretty ones. The guards."

Damis glanced at Apollonius.

"There's nothing we can do," Apollonius said. "Being pretty, my young friend, is no excuse for butchery. She must suffer her fate as all do."

"But look at her, Master. She is so young. Surely she was forced into prostitution."

"That is no excuse for murder."

The thin man cleared his throat and spit on the floor. "Vassus, a German, was her pimp. A crueler man never lived, but he was well connected. She's doomed. When they get through with her she won't be able to speak in her own defense." He stuck his tongue out and made a slicing motion with his hand, then gurgled with laughter.

"My, God," Damis exclaimed.

"Violence is never acceptable," Apollonius said, nodding wearily.

"But surely she has suffered enough?"

"Careful, my young friend. Look about you. All here are suffering, but they are not attractive like the young girl, so you express no concern for them. If she were not pretty, would you still be concerned for her fate?"

Damis clenched his teeth and lowered his eyes. He nodded, after a thoughtful pause. "I know you are the wisest of men, Master, but if I were to deny my feelings, rightly or wrongly, I would be a monster. True, she is pretty and that no doubt guides my compassion, but doesn't beauty exist to inspire what is most noble in us, Master?"

"If beauty guides you to have compassion for all, but does it?"

Damis stood up and moved across the stone floor and sat down next to the girl. He reached out and lifted her chin. Tears flowed down her cheeks.

*

Sitting hunched, legs dangling over the podium, Gaius watched the carpenters put the finishing touches on the Bridge of Death. All about the blow of hammers and the bite of saws on fresh timber echoed throughout the huge drum of the empty amphitheater.

The foreman, a burly, full-bearded Jew by the name of Yosef, stood near a ramp with his hands on his hips watching the whole operation, barking out orders occasionally. When the Jewish carpenters had hammered in their last nails, Yosef motioned toward a team of men who began unfurling a roll of canvas to cover the bridge from prying eyes.

He turned toward Gaius who was munching on cheese and bread. "Ho, Thanatos, that'll do it. In a few days you'll surely have the attention of the spectators with this diabolical structure. I hope you know what you're doing."

Gaius chuckled. "Only a fool is certain. Will your money be on me?"

Yosef laughed gruffly. "If it were anyone else, Thanatos, I would tell him he was crazy to fight two secutors at the same time on such a narrow platform, but you seem blessed, and I have enjoyed seeing you fight many times and win against the odds. So, yes, my money will, as always, be on you."

"I'll try not to let you down, foreman," Gaius said dryly.

He finished the last of the cheese and bread and stood up. The workmen filed out an exit. Alone, he came to a resolution.

Leaving the amphitheater, Gaius headed toward the tavern just off the Forum Romanum where he and Aella had gone. A light drizzle had started to fall as he reached the entrance. Inside, the glow of lamps reflected off the silver blade of the sergeant's sword Aella had thrown into an overhead beam.

Gaius ordered wine and took a table against a back wall where he stared at the sword. Customers, awed by the presence of the famous gladiator, whispered and nodded discreetly among themselves. After a while Gaius climbed up on a table and pulled the sword from the beam. "Does the sergeant of the frumetarii still come here?" Gaius asked the fat matron.

"Yes, Thanatos."

"Good." Gaius lay the sword on the table and sipped his wine, waiting.

The matron whispered into a servant boy's ear, and nodded toward the door. Gaius shook his head and tapped the sword. The boy sank back down on his stool.

The drizzle increased to a light rain, making gurgling sounds somewhere.

Customers filed out of the tavern, not wanting to be caught in the fray that was sure to come. The fat matron came to Gaius' table and refilled his cup.

"You're not exactly good for business, Thanatos," she said with a shrug of philosophical resignation.

Gaius loosed two silver coins on the table. "That should make up for it. It won't be much longer. I suspect one of your customers will inform the sergeant of the frumetarii that I'm here."

"You won't stand a chance, Thanatos. He'll bring his whole cadre with him--"

At that moment there was a clatter of hobnail shoes on the pavement and the sergeant entered with three soldiers. By the surprised look that formed on his face, Gaius could tell he hadn't been informed of his presence.

Gathering himself, the sergeant glanced at the sword on Gaius' table, then up toward the ceiling. He feigned a nonchalant attitude which didn't fool Gaius who through his experience in the arena had become an expert at sizing up men.

After loosing the fibula that held his cloak on, the sergeant snapped his fingers for wine. He held Gaius with his eyes, but Gaius saw the wrinkled lines of fear there. The flashing smile was strained with a false bravado.

He tossed his cloak on a table and shook the rain from his curly black hair. "You've made quite a name for yourself, pretty boy, but a gladiator is no match for a real fighter, a Roman soldier. Nothing's faked when soldiers fight. It's all show with you fucking sand monkeys." He paused to look at the matron. "Barkeep, am I going to have to wait all fucking day for a drink? And give one to the gladiator. It'll be his last unless he gets down on all fours and crawls out of here like the dog he is."

The matron hurried to the sergeant's table and nervously poured wine into a cup, spilling some. The sergeant backhanded her. "Now go fill his cup, you fat fucker."

"Why don't you fill it?" Gaius said.

The sergeant smirked. "I believe you have my sword. I want it back. It was such a nice reminder of that whore you were with as it dangled from the ceiling. I think I'll put it back up there."

"I intend on giving it back to you."

Gaius stood up, gripping the sword in his hand.

The smirk froze on the sergeant's face. "My three subordinates will make quick work of you, pretty boy." He stepped back and waved them forward.

Young and able men, they, nevertheless, hesitated to move.

Exasperated, the sergeant mocked them. "What's the matter with you? There are three of you, only one of him." But they refused to move, not eager to engage the famous Thanatos, who had the reputation of never sparing an opponent's life.

"Why don't you fight me, Sergeant, instead of hiding, like a weasel, behind your men?"

"You'll die for that, pretty boy. I'm an expert swordsman. I'll have your balls hanging from my waistband." He laughed, but it was hollow. He pulled out his sword, then angrily yanked one from the scabbard of the soldier standing nearest to him and, taking the initiative, rushed toward Gaius, who picked up a stool for a shield. But the sergeant had made a grave mistake by attempting to fight with two swords. Even one trained in the use of two swords would never use one he was unfamiliar with. The slightest difference in shape or weight, even the subtle differences in the feel of identical weapons, can throw off the game of an expert. It takes months of practice with the exact same weapons to achieve proficiency. No expert would be so foolish as to randomly choose a sword as the sergeant had.

As the sergeant thrust his right-hand sword at his middle, Gaius blocked it with the stool and, stepping forward, on his right foot, swung his sword down as if to strike the sergeant's head, forcing him to raise his left-hand sword to block it.

The sergeant may have had some skill, but he had been trained to fight in a regimented style whereas a gladiator was trained to be flexible in his method. But even if one has skill it will do no good if he lacks courage. The sergeant, despite his bravado, was scared and should have stepped back, but he didn't want to lose the initiative, so he forced his right-hand sword against Gaius' stool in an attempt to open a thrust at his left side which would be unprotected. But before he could, Gaius dropped his sword and grabbed the pommel of the sergeant's left-hand sword. Both men were equal in size and strength, but Gaius' right arm was stronger than the sergeant's left arm, and he twisted the sword out of his hand, leaving the sergeant with only one sword to protect himself with.

The sergeant retreated losing the initiative to Gaius who stepped in close battering the sergeant with the stool forcing him against a wall where he rammed the point of his sword into his groin. Pulling it out, he stepped back, dropping the stool, leaving the sergeant to sink to the floor clutching his middle, crying in agony.

"Kill him," the sergeant groaned through a grimace, but the three soldiers stood in place. Gaius glanced at them waving his sword. One of them shook his head for all of them.

On the floor blood formed a thick pool between the sergeant's legs where he squatted in a semi-conscious state. When he stopped moving Gaius shoved him over with his foot, tossed his sword down and walked out.

Chapter XV

"Death is the wish of some, the relief of many, and the end of all." --Seneca

It was a balmy day. A fresh breeze blew in through the grates of the Gate of Life, behind which Gaius stood gazing out at the overflow crowd. Soon he would be fighting two secutors on the Bridge of Death, which was still covered in a golden tarp.

The two secutors stood behind his golden chariot--a tall German, and a Spaniard. They were not wearing their helmets yet, so he avoided looking at them. It's easier to kill someone if their humanity is hid from you. Gaius stroked one of the trace stallions muzzle and thought back: