Fireball Page 4

  No, the thing to do was lie doggo and play it by ear. He stretched out on the bed. The others from this dormitory were probably out exercising in the square. He remembered his first day at boarding school. He had arrived before anyone else, and there, too, he had been shown into an empty dormitory and left to wait. Not quite as spartan as this place—truckle beds were some improvement on concrete blocks, and there had been no bars on the windows—but fairly bleak compared with his bedroom at home. And full of the lurking hazards and threats of a totally new way of life. There were quite a few differences between being a new boy in an English boarding school and being an unwilling recruit in the Roman imperial army, but enough resemblances to provide him with just the barest trace of badly needed confidence. It was cooler here than outside, but still very warm. He relaxed and stared up at the high whitewashed ceiling.

  • • •

  Simon was awakened abruptly from his doze by the clatter of feet and a surge of voices. He struggled to sit up and saw them pouring through the door in a flood. They sat down heavily on beds, pulled off boots and equipment, and stretched out, chattering. For the most part they were no more than medium height, but they all were strongly muscled and fit-looking. The majority, too, were dark and more or less swarthy; the tall red-haired man who was coming in now was an outstanding exception.

  When he stopped at the end of the bed on which Simon was sitting, Simon thought it was because he had seen him staring and resented it. It was a bit late to look away, so he offered a smile instead. The redhead was not mollified. He mouthed a rush of Latin which was definitely not friendly. Simon put his hands up, gesturing noncomprehension. All that provoked was another burst, equally venomous. Simon shook his head, still smiling to show his good intentions. The blotchy face beneath the red thatch scowled more ferociously; the next moment the stranger had taken a step forward and swung a sidewinder which caught Simon below the left jaw and sent him sprawling into the space between the beds.

  The blow did not knock him out but dazed him considerably. As he lay there, he registered that the redhead had put one foot on the side of the bed, a fairly obvious indication of possession. He realized the probable reason for both the diatribe and the assault. Unwittingly he had taken the Celt’s bed (he must be a Celt with that colouring), and his smile, following his failure to respond to the bawling out, had been taken for defiance rather than propitiation.

  However unjustified the blow, there was no point in making an enemy, especially at this early stage. Simon scrambled to his feet, smiled again, and this time held his right hand out. The Celt ignored the hand. His face looked meaner than ever, if that was possible. He rapped out more Latin. It sounded like an order. Simon would have been very inclined to obey, whatever it demanded, had he only been able to work out what was required. As it was, all he could do was go on smiling and hold both hands out, palms up, as a sign of helplessness.

  He was never to know quite what he had done wrong. Perhaps the gesture he made resembled something derisory or obscene in the Celt’s tribal background. What he was to learn was that Rufus (as the Celt was called) was permanently spoiling for a fight, the more so when the prospective opponent was smaller or weaker than himself. He leapt at Simon, bore him down against the next bed, and got his neck in a strangling armhold.

  Propitiation having proved disastrous, there was nothing for it but to fight back. That was easier proposed than carried out, though. The Celt was several years older, taller and heavier and a lot more powerful. Simon plucked at the arm gripping his throat, but futilely. He tried to use his legs to get a purchase which would enable him to throw the Celt off, but they only thrashed helplessly. The band compressing his windpipe was like iron; he could not draw breath.

  The Celt’s face stared down into his, teeth showing in a wicked grin. The grip did not loosen. He could not possibly, Simon thought, intend to kill him merely for usurping a bed and then failing to answer something. He felt his ears roaring and saw the grin, as unremitting as the grip. But it could happen, he realized incredulously; it was happening.

  He made another convulsive effort to kick out with his feet. It failed, and he felt weakness spreading through his body; it was so much easier to let go than to struggle. He was aware of relaxing, giving up, and aware that the strangling arm still tightened. Then, in near blackness, he felt the impact of another heavy blow. Someone else was attacking him, and he wanted to tell him not to bother; it was all over anyway.

  Simon came chokingly back to life. The Celt had loosed his hold; in fact, he now lay sprawled on the other side of the bed, with a figure bent over him, arm raised ready to strike if the Celt tried to get to his feet. The redhead did not look as though he felt keen on trying.

  Getting slowly to his own feet, Simon took stock of his rescuer. He was old, forty at least, his black beard speckled with white. He was no taller than Simon, possibly an inch shorter, but his chest and arms were enormous. He had a broad, ugly face, broken-nosed and deeply scarred on both the forehead and the right cheek. Under any other circumstances Simon would have reckoned him much more worth avoiding than the Celt. He was not even sure now, with that forbidding face apparently glaring at him, that the Celt had not just been smacked away because he had infringed this one’s rights to do the killing around here.

  The attempt to smile his way out of trouble had been a disastrous failure last time. Simon stood in front of the barrel-chested man trying not to show anything and trying to keep his knees from trembling. The stare was long and suspicious and only ended in an utterance that was part inquiry and part growl. Simon looked at him helplessly; at least he was not going to make the mistake of trying any more hand gestures.

  To his astonishment the glare cracked into a broad grin, displaying broken and missing teeth. A hand tightened on his shoulder, but the grip was plainly friendly. The big man spoke again: “Est mihi nomen Bos.”

  That was amazing, too. For the first time since they had been catapulted into the past he understood something clearly. “My name is Bos.” Smiling in return, Simon tapped his chest.

  “Est mihi nomen Simonus.”

  Bos nodded approvingly, repeated “Simonus,” and went on into a stream of growling Latin in which Simon was immediately lost. He had something tattooed on his chest: a fish? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that he had found, for the moment at least, an ally in this bewildering and frightening world.

  4

  OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS Simon hardly stopped congratulating himself on his luck in meeting Bos and on the fact that for some reason Bos liked him. Under his protection Simon felt very safe; it was obvious that no one in the dormitory was going to tangle with Bos if he could possibly help it. The Celt in particular kept well out of his way, contenting himself with a silent vicious glare at Simon when Bos happened not to be looking.

  Nor was it just protection; he got help and guidance from the big man, too. By sticking close to him, Simon was able to pick up quickly the tricks and routines of barracks life. Even on the exercise ground Bos kept an eye on him, and the instructor, who spent a lot of time bawling out the other new recruit, gave Simon an easy time. He, too, though superior in rank, obviously did not want to run the risk of Bos’s getting riled.

  The advantages were manifold. Bos took him to get fitted with boots and tossed aside the first pair offered as unsatisfactory; the man issuing them was quick to produce another pair, over which Bos, after a close examination and some twisting of the leather with his powerful fingers, nodded satisfaction. And Simon noticed that when they queued for food, it was not only Bos who was given larger and better portions, but he as well.

  Gradually he was picking up the language. Bos seemed to find his ignorance amusing. He willingly supplied the Latin name for things Simon pointed out and was patient in repetition. It was possible he felt flattered at being asked to help: Latin, as Simon was to learn, was not his native tongue, and while he was not at all stupid, his mental powers fell a long way short of matching
his physical strength.

  Towards the end of the second day on the exercise ground, while they were taking a short break, a supply cart rolled in through the main gate. Simon pointed to it, in inquiry. It was pulled by two white oxen, and he asked the name of the animals.

  Bos grinned at him in an odd way.

  “Boves,” he growled.

  Of course, Simon thought—how could he have forgotten that? He remembered old Gargoyle explaining the origin of the word bovine. From bos, bovis—an ox. Bos was still grinning with delight, and suddenly he got it. Bos! He pointed to the animal and then to the man.

  “Tu—bos!”

  Bos roared with laughter, slapping his hands on his huge chest. He was obviously proud of the name he had acquired.

  The training was partly general physical exercising, partly weapon training. Simon was given a wooden sword and in the first instance had to wield it against a wooden dummy, called a palus. He slashed away enthusiastically but a bit aimlessly, and the instructor had to put him right as to the kind of thrust or slash that was needed and the appropriate spots to aim at.

  Simon for his part did his best to follow instructions. He realized that there was an ultimate objective—that the skills he was learning were meant to be applied in due course to blows not against a lump of man-shaped wood, but against a live human being. He did not let his mind dwell on that prospect. Before an army went into battle, it had to get to the place where the fighting was to take place, and once they were clear of the barracks, he would have a chance to slip away. The position after that was uncertain, but better than what might happen if he remained a soldier; and he was learning more and more as time went by.

  Enough Latin, for instance, to be able to conduct a limited conversation with Bos. Bos, it appeared, came originally from the north and had been captured as a boy by a Roman raiding party. He told Simon his real name but, when Simon made a hash of repeating it, merely shrugged. Bos was good enough. Simon tried to find out what had happened to him between then and now, but communication failed. He persisted: How was it that he had become a soldier—miles Romanus?

  Bos was bewildered. His big face creased in total non-comprehension. Simon racked his mind and his limited Latin to get it over to him. Start at the simplest level. Soldiers—he gestured, indicating both the two of them and the rest—they were all soldiers, Roman soldiers.

  “Milites?” With understanding came amusement, starting as a slow grin but turning into belly-shaking laughter. When the paroxysm was over, Bos said something Simon did not follow, and then spoke more slowly and deliberately: “Milites non sumus, Simonus. Gladiatores sumus!”

  It was Simon’s turn to be staggered, but when he did grasp it, there was no impulse to laugh. Barracks and military training meant army; he had taken that for granted. He had completely forgotten about the Roman gladiators, who also had lived in barracks and trained with weapons. So much for his notion of deserting once the legion abandoned barracks life for active service. This was a legion that went from its barracks to the circus—the circus where there were no clowns, but bloody hand-to-hand combat, with loser left dying in the dust and winner gaining no more than a reprieve. He had got it wrong about the events that day in the forum. His little group had not been left behind to be press-ganged by the army; they had been sold as a block to the director of the local gladiatorial school.

  Bos recognized his unhappiness and, though surprised by it, did his best to offer sympathy. Simon had the usual difficulty in making out what he was trying to convey, but repetition of the word felix made him realize Bos was telling him he was lucky. He showed his scepticism, and Bos ploughed on, in ponderous and barely intelligible explanation.

  He was talking about Simon and the other who had arrived in the dormitory with him; they were lucky to have been picked for the school, to have been strong enough to train as gladiators. Especially Simon, who, although he was tall and not a weakling, was young to have gained acceptance. Because of that, he had a chance. He would have a sword, an opportunity to defend himself. Not like the others who had been marched to the barracks that day. He spat in the dust, a gesture indicating their fate.

  Simon thought of the five who had crouched naked beside them throughout that broiling afternoon, especially of the little old man who had been in the cellar with him. What was going to happen to them? he asked Bos.

  Bos shrugged. “Damnati ad bestias.”

  Simon had enough Latin to know what that meant. Condemned to the beasts—sent out into the arena, weaponless, to be savaged and eaten by starving lions, for the amusement of spectators. He almost did feel he was lucky.

  • • •

  During the ensuing days and weeks, Simon gradually got the hang of his new way of life. At the top, with absolute authority, was Gaius Turbatus, the lanista, or director of training. This was the man in the red cloak who had picked Simon out in the forum. He appeared frequently but at unpredictable intervals, sometimes accompanied by his deputies, sometimes alone. He studied the recruits very carefully, observing their progress with a keen, cold eye. Certain men were dismissed from the ranks following a word from him to an instructor, and did not reappear. They had been condemned to the beasts, too, Bos explained, having failed to make the grade as gladiators.

  The trainers were mostly superannuated gladiators. Apart from general training, they supervised the individual disciplines, of which there were many different kinds. Some, whose training took place not in the square but in an arena behind the barracks, had to do with horses; like the essedarii who fought from horse-driven chariots. All the rest fought on foot, but in a number of ways.

  There were several varieties of heavily armed fighter, under the general title of secutores. A secutor parmularius had a small shield, for instance, while a scutarius had a big one. And there were thraeces, who had light shields and a sort of sickle, and the retiarii, who were by way of being the stars of the show. These wore neither helmet nor breastplate—they fought bareheaded in tunics—and were armed only with a net with which to snare their opponents, a three-pronged trident, and a small dagger. Apparently they took on not only heavily armed foot fighters but even essedarii. Their skill and therefore their advantage lay in their agility; their aim was to dance round their more powerful foe, provoking and angering and eventually exhausting him—only then did they move in, tangle him in the net, pin him with the trident, and dispatch him with the dagger.

  Simon, Bos said, was not the right type for a retiarius—too heavily built, young as he was, and not fast enough on his feet. Simon did not feel any great regret over that judgement. He did not relish the notion of going into the arena at all, but if he had to, he wanted to have something more than a yard or two of netting to protect him.

  There were a lot of other people in the barracks, apart from the gladiators and their trainers and the poor devils in the north wing who had nothing to do but wait for their appointment with the lions. (And tigers and wolves, Bos added, and occasionally the chance of being trampled to death by maddened elephants, though that was something of a rarity.) There was a host of auxiliaries, playing their separate parts in this little world: cooks and their assistants, storemen, bootmakers, tailors, armourers, masseurs, doctors, and medical orderlies . . . they seemed to outnumber the gladiators, but it wasn’t easy to estimate their numbers accurately. For one thing they had the right to pass in and out of the barracks without restriction. Simon had a thought of getting out himself by passing as one of them, but abandoned it; however hard he found it to keep track, the guards seemed to know them all, and a botched escape, he was fairly sure, would, like a poor showing in training, condemn him to the beasts.

  He did not try to discuss any of this with Bos. Even with their limited comprehension of each other’s speech, he had come to realize that Bos’s basic attitude was one of acceptance of things as they were. After being taken captive as a boy, he had been a farm slave for many years before being sold to the gladiatorial school on the death of his maste
r. For several years since, he had fought as a secutor, surviving dozens of single-handed combats and several mass battles. None of this, obviously, would he have chosen, but he did not seem to resent any of it and would, Simon guessed, have thought anyone mad who suggested trying to escape from it.

  But while he could not confide his own intentions to Bos, he could learn from him. He learned, for instance, that the present rigid confinement to barracks normally applied only to those like himself who had not yet fought: the tirones. The veterani, such as Bos, were usually permitted to go in and out, as the auxiliaries did. The exception to this was in the month immediately leading up to the Games.

  So once the Games were over, there would be a relaxation, and by that time, too, he would be a veteranus. Bos talked, with anticipation but not impatiently, of the things and places he would show Simon in the city; it was Londinium as he had assumed. There was a little wine bar in particular which was Bos’s home, insofar as he could ever know one. His girlfriend kept it. She would like Simon, he said. And she had a young sister. He made a gesture indicating feminine beauty and winked an eye.

  Simon played up to this. The important thing was getting out of the barracks. It was safer to keep his counsel as far as the step after that was concerned. One thing of which he was sure was that, however attractive the wine bar or the younger sister, they could not begin to make up for the unpleasantness of staying on as a gladiator.

  Or the risks. He reminded himself of something else: Everything depended on his actually making the transition from tiro to veteranus—in other words, on fighting at the Games and winning. Whatever his intentions for the future, fitness and skill as a gladiator were important now. It was not something like a school examination or cricket trials which loomed ahead, but a matter of life and death. His life.