'According to our divinity, he was collected by scavengers who came to the arena later and found him living under a pile of bodies, and he was brought to his parents, who demanded he fall on his sword because of the shame. Apparently he was too weak, from what I hear, gladiator, and his parents had slaves do it for him. So in the end, you did not save his life.'
'You don't understand, and I don't think you could, Tribune.'
'I don't know the arena. I don't know politics. I know my orders. I shouldn't talk to you. But I have.'
'Where am I going?'
'You'll find out.'
'I know that. But will you tell me?'
'No. But I want to thank you for giving the men back their spirit against the barbarian.'
'And thank you for the information about Publius. He probably was not too weak, but fell on his sword and missed.'
'People have said that if I saw Eugeni fight I would not wish to see a sword in any other man's hand. I saw you fight. It was magnificent'
'You are emperor here, Tribune Macer. You could grant me my freedom for the fight I gave you.'
'I owe you something, but what you ask is Domitian's to give, not mine.'
Human bones with the flesh gone no longer bothered the men when we came upon camps of the barbarians. One could smell the grease and odours of their bodies miles off, even in the snow that dampens odours.
As we marched further north, the marching became more difficult. The cold was unlike any I have ever known, even beyond the depths of winters in my early youth, when I would long for the first sun smiles of delicious spring. This cold slowed and numbed and made the cohort a bobbing, loose collection of men stomping through knee-high snow. I managed better than the others.
The entire world was cold - a true hell, as the Persians saw hell. It was in this cold that my hope of ever seeing Miriamne and Petronius - a hope resurrected when I had heard the decree of banishment - fled my mind.
One day we marched into a bitter wind. Even in the recent days there had been nothing like this. A wind of knives and blades and points. I cried for mercy. Not since boyhood had I cried thus. This, despite my gladiatorial training. The tears froze on my face.
Macer yelled into my numb ears that I should open my eyes.
'I cannot. I cannot,' I yelled back into the wind.
'A little bit, open them. Domitian demands you look out upon the German Sea.'
With great pain I opened my eyes to a vision of horror. All was white but for the black sea, whipped at foaming points to a froth. My mouth tasted of blood and my ears heard a constant, roaring hum. I could even smell the pain of the cold.
'You are here,' said Macer. 'This is where we must leave you with your eyes on the German Sea. Domitian has ordered that I give you this. You do not have to look. It is your spatha. The emperor bade me relay to you that you may fight the cold with it.'
'If I had the strength I would fall on it,' I said, and even the words came with pain.
'We do not like this task the emperor set before us, but we must follow it to the letter. There was nothing in the orders that said you may not have a drink before we leave you, and it is my suspicion that this drink is drugged to remove pain. Officially, however, I know nothing of any drug. Drink, gladiator. Drink away the pain.'
I felt something barely touch my lips and realized it was the spout of a flask. I felt bitter, cold liquid fill my mouth, and then it went down my throat, burning like fires. Blessedly, he was giving me an easier death, dying himself. I ran full and naked to my death.
I saw myself going down to the black sea beneath me, and then I was very warm and felt quite good about leaving the world. I had had my time, and I had loved Miriamne, and I had heard my son call me father, and I was through. It was no great thing at all.
Even my mother was there, and exactly as she had looked back home in Greece, very young and very beautiful, and singing me songs I only now remembered.
There was no pain, but a deep floating into a wonderful darkness. Even my father was good and proper as was everything.
And then the incredible pain and the burning flesh and a giant bird beak stuffing down my throat and barbarian grunts.
The barbarians were back.
eighteen
Fifteenth Day - Petrovitch Report
Hail the Soviet Socialist Republics. Hail the Houghton Corporation. Hail the Dominican Order. Hail the Scandanavian Soviet Friendship Pact. Hail man. Hail twentieth-century man.
I vomit
I live.
Hands wipe at my face, and I cannot lift my head. Large barbarians reach down to me and grunt their yellow-haired grunts and point. I am captured. I am high from the ground and linen surrounds me. White linen. I am on an altar. But, if I am on an altar, where are the worshipers to witness my sacrifice ? The room is white, and there is sun coming in through cracks in a curtain. A summer sun, a spring sun.
I smell their foul incense. They wipe me so that I should be prepared for their gods, clean for their gods, whatever gods they may be.
Their priests are white. Where are the people ? Am I to be eaten alive or burned ? Where is the cohort ? Have they been ambushed ? Are they filling some barbarian's belly? How long are they gone? A day ? A half day ? Moments ? It is spring. Why is it spring ? That is a spring sun. A barbarian woman with white cloth helmet above her head plunges a ceremonial dagger into my arm. It is glass so they must have some contact with civilization.The point is a small metal spike, beyond barbaric crafts. If they have such ceremonial instruments, they must have contact with Greeks or Romans or Egyptians.
Perhaps they trade gold to Scyth
ians. Their faces are so fright
eningly pale. They are so large. But if they have fine instruments, then there is a way back to civilization and from civilization to the provinces of Judea. If I am not eaten, I will see you, Miriamne and Petronius. I am far craftier than any barbarian. I feel good and sleepy, and all is right with the way of things, I have won.
I have beaten Domitian. I have beaten the world.
Why do I allow such foolish confidence? They are madmen's thoughts. I will be crafty. The darkness of sleep is good.
'Roman. Roman,' says a voice.
I am awake. A woman speaks. But she says it as though she is talking about me, instead of to me. She is big and her skin pale white and eyebrows as white as the most northern German. Yet she stands stiffly, composed rigidly within herself. The eyes are blue. She does not smell like a barbarian, no rancid animal fats, no human flesh decomposing in a satchel on her side. She wears black. Her teeth are good, white and even. Barbarians always have good teeth, the better to tear human flesh with.
Yet there is a quietness in her voice.
'Roman, please be excusing me, Roman. We are friends. Friends we are of you and your people. Helpful we wish to be.'
Two giants of men stand behind her. They wear tight-wrapped tunics of dark colours. A strand of knotted cloth hangs from each neck.
'What is your name? Who are you? Say now this thing to us.'
The two men dog-bark their grunts to each other and then to the woman. She wears a small black cap, and a black loose tunic with round clasps holding it around her breasts.
The round clasps are in a row. They are quite orderly. Have they captured Greeks or Egyptians or Phoenicians who serve them by making these? It is always said of barbarians that, should they get their hands on the finest sculptor, they would enjoy him to the last morsel.
Yet these people obviously let the craftsmen live as slaves. Otherwise, where would they get the clasps of such perfect roundness and in such order down the front of their tunics? I have never heard of barbarians saving craftsmen, however. Yet who knows what happens in the far wilds of Germany.
'We know you talk. We have heard you in your sleep.'
How strange this one talks. She pronounces the words with hard, growling sounds, yet the order of them is relatively good. Barbarians always have trouble with this. She does not
'We are your friends. Friends.'
They are confused. They talk among themselves. How constrained are their hands, as though they have been drugged.
Per
haps they are slaves themselves, secretly educated by Domitian. Then, even while appearing to banish me from Rome, Domitian would get me back.
The men seem excited. One smiles briefly and quietly. Had I not negotiated with many like him, I would have lost sight of this. I have never seen that sort of smile in a barbarian. Yet there it is, so briefly and so quietly, like someone selling a lot of rebellious slaves while the buyer forces the bad deal. He must be Domitian's man. The woman is frightened and ill at ease, so she has no power here. The smaller one with the heavier features and dark hair seems honestly joyous.
My thing pains. I cannot move my right big toe well.
'Hello’
I say.
The woman gasps as though copulating.
The men smile broadly.
'Who are you?' says the woman.
I open my mouth and the word comes hard. 'Eugeni.'
'What is your full name? Eugeni who?' she says.
'The
Eugeni. You know you are talking to me.'
'Yes. Yes. I know. I am talking to you.'
'The
Eugeni.'
'Yes.'
'Lucius Aurelius Eugenianus,
the
Eugeni. Rome's Eugeni. The Eugeni.' They give me some more water. It is cool and good. My mouth feels as though someone has scraped it with steel brushes. The water burns as though coming into cuts. But it is good.
'Hello, Eugeni. Hello. Hello,' says the woman.
‘I
am Lucius Aurelius Eugenianus, citizen of Rome, servant of our divine Domitian, singing chastened praises to his name. Would that I could look upon his face again, cleansed of my sins.'
They babble.
'Hello. Hello. Hello, citizen of Rome. Welcome. Welcome. Welcome. Hello,' says the barbarian woman with the dead white skin
'And greetings to you,' I say 'How are you? How do you feel?'
‘I
feel weak. It h
as been a long march. Is this a
temple?' I say. 'No,' she says. 'This is not a temple. This is a place where people get well.'
'A training area. I will be fit for training shortly.' I try to raise my body but can only lift my head. 1 clench my hands and curl my toes. I breathe. My reflexes
are there, although quite dimin
ished. And the right big toe barely moves.
'We just want you to get well.'
'What tribe do you belong to?
’
'Rest, Eugeni. There is much we have to talk about. Know you this, we are your friends, and we wish to give you comfort. My name is Olava. This is Lewus and this is Semyonus. We are your friends.'
‘
Why?
’
'Because we want you to be well,' she says. 'Why?'
'We have our reasons, which we shall tell to you at the times proper for such telling. You must eat and exercise and rest.'
'I never get fat and tender no matter how much I eat,' I say. 'I am good for the arena.'
She says this does not matter. She growls her dog-bark German to the two men, who leave. She stays with me, smiling and showing her big teeth. It is a horrid large head she has draped in black I am dizzy and I sleep.
I awaken and she is there. It is night. She asks me if I wish food, and I say I do. She has a bowl for me and I pick a lump of meal in the darkness. Outside there are lights I see through draperies. But I cannot discern what they are. Their tribe may be camped there. There is a small piece of meat in the bowl, too. I ask what the meat is.
'Liver,' she says.
'Of what?' I ask.
'Calf. Young cow. It is the liver of a young cow.
’
My jaw hurts and swallowing feels like little knives ripping my throat. The room smells of strange bitter incense. The linen covering my very high couch feels well made. They weave here or know where they can capture cloth from civilized towns. Perhaps they trade for it.
'I saw the sun earlier,' I say. 'Have I been carried far south?
’
That depends where you were.' 'I was at the German Sea.'
‘N
o.'
'Did you see the cohort ? There is a Roman cohort about. They are fierce, but I know things about them that can help you.'