Читать книгу Atilus the Gladiator - E. C. Tubb - Страница 6

CHAPTER TWO

Aricia was a small town set on the Appian Way, a place with few of the comforts and distractions of Rome. A farming community, the town was ringed with the villas and estates of the wealthy, absentee landlords leaving the management of their property to trusted agents. The amphitheatre itself, built in a natural hollow, was constructed of wood and stone. Like the town, it was small, the actual arena little more than a hundred feet long by eighty wide, the tiered stands now filled with those who had come to witness the games.

It was past noon and the preliminaries were over. The beasts which had been hauled from the port at Tarracina were dead, together with those already installed, and the crowd, blood-lust wetted, tore the air with strident yells.

‘Atilus! Atilus Cindras! Get him, man! Kill! Kill!’

I ignored the shouts, not looking at the packed maeniana; the avid spectators. With a man like Leacus it would be suicide to give him such an opportunity.

He was a Cappadocian with all the sly cunning of his breed, a retiarius, arrogant and confident of victory. Now, edging towards me, he purred the traditional chant.

‘I do not hunt you. I seek a fish. Why do you swim away, Atilus?’

The net in his hand twitched as he spoke, the mesh weighted with gilded pellets of lead. Held in his other hand, the barbs of the fascina caught and reflected the sunlight from points and edges. The trident with its long shaft, which he used with the skill of long familiarity.

Naked aside from a leather belt and apron, his skin held an oiled sheen. A thin, metal fillet confined his hair and the only armour he wore, the galerus strapped to his left shoulder, was ornamented with embossed designs of fish and crabs.

A lithe man, he was fast and dangerous, filled with the determination to kill. A determination matched by my own.

Today either he or I would spill our lives on the sand.

‘Are you afraid of me, Atilus?’ he purred. ‘Listen to the crowd shouting for you. How will they shout, I wonder, when you are down and begging for mercy? Down and dying with my barbs buried in your guts.’

Talk to distract the attention as was the turn of the trident he held, the sunlight blazing from the polished tines. The net hissed towards my feet over the sand, a simple move and one easy to avoid, yet had I not anticipated it, the mesh would have wound itself around my ankle and a sharp tug could have brought me down.

Springing over it I backed, wary, the shield held close to my left side, my left leg with its protective greave thrust forward. The helmet, wide-brimmed, visored with a perforated plate which covered my face, was heavy, and sweat ran down into my eyes despite the wad of padding. Like the retiarius I wore a belt and leather apron, but had no dagger. My only weapon was the gladius which I held as an extension of my armoured right arm.

Too much armour and yet not enough. It slowed movement, yet failed to give complete protection. My thighs, torso, and right leg were bare. My left arm, my throat, my back from neck to ankles. Only by facing Leacus could I hope to defend myself from the thrust of his trident. Only by dodging could I escape from the cast of his net.

It came like a cloud against the clear blue of the sky, opening, spreading as it fell, the mesh wide to engulf my helmet, my upper arms. To catch and throw it aside with the shield would be to expose my body to the threat of the trident. To beat at it with my sword was to turn and give the barbs a defenceless target.

Moving quickly to the left I ducked, swung the gladius in a sharp circle, felt the impact of the strands and moved in with a sudden lunge.

Time and skill were against me. Leacus was already on the retreat, pulling the net after him with the thong which attached it to his wrist. My shield barely missed his hand, and my sword, thrusting, caught the net. Tearing it free I caught a glimpse of stabbing barbs through the eye-holes of my visor. Lowering my head I took the blow on my helmet, feeling the tug of the strap beneath my chin as the tines hit hard against the crest. Again I struck, an upward sweeping blow this time, and felt the grate as the edge rasped on the withdrawn barbs. A quick move forward and I sent the steel hissing through the air in a slashing cut.

‘Habet!’ The crowd yelled as blood traced a path over the oiled torso. ‘Habet!’

Leacus was wounded and knew it. He had felt the impact, the burn, saw the blood which fell from the wound to stain his thighs, the sand beneath his feet. Turning, he ran to put distance between us, halting to face me, chest heaving, lips thinned in a snarl.

‘Atilus! ‘ screamed a woman. ‘Get him! Kill him—and take me for a prize!’

‘Open his belly,’ yelled a plump senator, his face like his voice, distorted with passion. ‘Slice his guts!’

They were impatient, eager for the kill, but to rush in was to risk too much. The retiarius was barely scratched; blood made the shallow gash appear worse than it was, and he was waiting and ready. Yet it would be a mistake to wait too long. As a secutor, my part was to chase the other, to be the ‘pursuer’ in our combat. A disadvantage to add to the rest.

Always the retiarius had the greater chance. The net, the reach of the trident, his greater mobility, all were in his favour, the odds being five to three. Yet despite that, a retiarius was held in low esteem. Romans loved the sword, the gladius which had given them the world, the weapon with which they had cut their way to an empire.

And, loving it, they wanted to see it used.

‘In!’ they screamed. ‘Atilus! In!’

Both veterans of the arena, we had no attendant trainers or slaves waiting to lash and burn us into combat. A fact appreciated by the cognoscenti, who took a delight in the skill displayed by experienced fighters, and who argued for hours over the relative merits of various weapons. Dilettantes who claimed to see a beauty in combat, but who had never experienced it from the viewpoint of those engaged. For those in the arena things were different.

On the sand life could hang on a trifle. A patch of hidden blood or excreta on which a foot could slip, a momentary hesitation, a mistake in judgement, a mistimed blow, all could cost a man his life. Small things, but death waited on such.

And death was always waiting.

It came at me in a glitter of points, a mist-like swirl of a thrown mesh. Pellets rapped against the brim of my helmet and the metal of my visor tore as, dodging the net, I was slow to avoid the trident. Luck was with me; had I not turned in time, had the thrust been delivered with greater force, the barbs would have ripped through the bronze to reach my eyes.

Dropping to one knee I slashed at the long, muscular legs. My shield jerked as the net, pulled free, caught at the metal. Like an asp the trident thrust at the exposed flesh, the tines clashing against my blocking sword. Locked together, both weapons rose as I reared upright. For a moment we stood face to face, then Leacus had torn free and was backing.

Any retiarius knew the value of distance. It was his greatest advantage and the one thing a secutar had to overcome if he hoped to win. To get in close within the reach of the trident, to get into sword-range in order to cut and thrust at the unprotected body, to use the shield and helmet to full advantage.

‘Atilus! In man, in!’

‘Snare him, Leacus! Bring him down!’

The roar of the crowd was like the sound of distant surf and voices blended one into the other, words indistinguishable, the thunder a feral baying, a savage demand for blood.

To wait was to allow the retiarius to recover. To attack was to take a chance, but one which could be minimized. Weaving, feinting, I watched the hands, the feet, calling on hard-won experience to anticipate what Leacus would do next and to plan accordingly.

A fighter develops certain characteristics, using tactics which have served him well in the past, and Leacus was no exception. Already I had learned that he twitched his hand twice before casting the net and that he favoured an overhand use of the trident. Tall, he could afford to lift it high and thrust downwards, but I too was tall, a fact he had apparently overlooked.

Deliberately I crouched a little, lessening my height, planning even as I edged towards him. To get in, to tempt him to make a downward thrust, to move fast enough to get inside the reach of the tines and then to suddenly rear, catching the shaft on my shoulder, to lift the gladius and beat it aside.

And then, with luck, a moment in which he would be at my mercy.

A gamble, and one which would have to be conducted with care. Leacus was experienced, the winner of many combats, a primus palus, a first-class fighter. No tyro, he would not be easy to delude.

‘Atilus,’ he said. ‘The next time, you bastard, I’ll get you. The barbs in your guts, twisting, pulling out your tripes. I’ll ruin that pretty body of yours.’

Had he a plan of his own? If so, what?

I had dropped and cut at his legs, tempting him with a wide-flung shield. He had lunged—was that it?

His net had caught my shield and he had not run as he should have done. A mistake or a calculated feint? I had no time to judge, instinct would decide.

I advanced, watching distance, slowing as I saw the twitch of his hand. Once...twice...the net rose like a web, spreading as it fell, the weights at the edges holding it wide and dragging it down.

A good throw, but I was ready and waiting. Crouching I lifted my shield and ducked under the near edge, felt the weights rap on my helmet and back as, like lightning, the net closed and the trident came darting at my throat

Already I was moving.

Sand gritted beneath my sandals as I lunged forward following the pull of the net. Tines rasped on the metal protecting my right shoulder and glanced from it as I rose to my full height, a swing of my sword knocking it aside. Leacus was fast. I saw his eyes widen with sudden fear and caught the blur of his net hand as he snatched at the dagger in his belt. Caught in the net, my shield was useless. My sword was too far to one side; before I could bring it to bear, he would have the dagger in action, steel driving between my ribs, into my unprotected stomach. Only one thing was left for me to do.

Lifting my left shin, I slammed it upwards between his thighs.

Shin, not foot, we were too close for that. The greave was a hammer catching him in the crotch and crushing his testicles. Before me his face changed, became suffused with agony as he staggered backwards, doubled, retching.

A blow from the flat of my sword sent him to sprawl helpless on the sand.

‘Atilus!’ The crowd rose, shouting. ‘Atilus!’

The moment of victory, always sweet. The gamble won, and I had lived and would fight again. Kicking aside the trident and dagger, I rested my foot on the neck of the fallen man. An elementary precaution; though hurt, it was still possible for him to roll clear, snatch up a weapon and reverse the victory. If he tried, I would kill him, a messy end which would not please the crowd, which liked to deliver the final verdict. Beneath my sandal Leacus groaned as, sweating, he extended one arm and raised his forefinger in a plea for mercy.

He deserved it. He had fought well and had done his best, but the decision was not up to me. Lifting the gladius I looked to where the editor of the games sat in his ornate chair on the podium.

Quinctius Pullvillius was a duumvir of Aricia, a sleekly plump man, part of whose duties was to provide gladiatorial displays, and who intended to get full value from this particular munera. And yet it had fallen short of the expectations of the crowd. The trinqui had been few; only a handful of sacrificial victims were thrown to the beasts, and the bestiarii had not been of the best. Leacus and I had been the prime entertainment but, according to the crowd, he had put up a bad show.

‘Lugula!’ They screamed. ‘Kill!’

The editor had the final say. If the crowd had demanded mercy by a display of fluttering handkerchiefs and uplifted thumbs, he would have gone against their wishes to his later, political cost. Now, to grant mercy would earn the same reward. For a moment he hesitated, then, lifting his arm, he let it fall to extend before him, the thumb downturned in the signal for death.

Leacus saw it. Gasping he said, ‘Atilus—’

He died as my sword plunged into his heart.