Ben Kane - The Gladiator

South-western Thrace, autumn 74 BC

When the village came into sight at the top of a distant hill, a surging joy filled him. The road from Bithynia had been long. His feet were blistered, the muscles of his legs hurt and the weight of his mail shirt was making his back ache. The chill wind snapped around his ears, and he cursed himself for not buying a fur cap in the settlement he’d passed through two days prior. He had always made do with a felt liner and, when necessary, a bronze helmet, rather than a typical Thracian fox-skin alopekis. But in this bitter weather, maybe warm clothing was more important than war gear. Gods, but he was looking forward to sleeping under the comfort of a roof, out of reach of the elements. The journey from the Roman camp where he’d been released from service had taken more than six weeks, and winter was fast approaching. It should have been less than half that, but his horse had gone lame only two days after he’d left. Since then, riding had been out of the question. Carrying his shield and equipment was as much as he could ask it to do without worsening its limp.

‘Any other mount, and I’d have sacrificed you to the gods long ago,’ he said, tugging the lead rope that guided the white stallion ambling along behind him. ‘But you’ve served me well enough these last years, eh?’ He grinned as it nickered back at him. ‘No, I’ve no apples left. But you’ll get a feed soon enough. We’re nearly home, thank the Rider.’

Home. The mere idea seemed unreal. What did that mean after so long? Seeing his father would be the best thing about it, although he’d be an old man by now. The traveller had been away for the guts of a decade, fighting for Rome. A power hated by all Thracians, yet one that many served nonetheless. He had done so for good reasons. To learn their ways so that one day I can fight them again. Father’s idea was a good one. It had been the hardest act of his life to take orders from some of the very soldiers he had fought against — men who had perhaps killed his brother and who had certainly conquered his land. But it had been worth it. He had learned a wealth of information from those whoresons. How to train men mercilessly, until they fought as one unit. How vital it was to obey orders, even in the red heat of battle. How trained soldiers could be made to stand their ground in the most extreme situations. Discipline, he thought. Discipline and organisation were two of the most vital keys.

It wasn’t just the desire to learn their ways that had you leave your village, added his combative side. After its last defeat by the legions, your tribe had been thoroughly cowed. There was no chance of fighting anyone, least of all Rome. You are a warrior, who follows the rider god. You love war. Bloodshed. Killing. Joining the Romans gave you the opportunity to take part in never-ending campaigns. Despite everything that they’ve done to your people, you still took pleasure from waging war alongside them.

I’ve had a bellyful of it for now. It’s time to settle down. Find a woman. Start a family. He smiled. Once he would have scorned such ideas. Now they were appealing. During his service with the legions, he’d seen things that would turn a man’s hair grey. He’d become used to them — in the red heat of battle, he had acted in much the same way, but sacking undefended camps and villages, and seeing women raped and children killed, were not things that sat especially well with him.

‘Planning how to take the fight to Rome will do me for a while. The time for war will present itself again,’ he said to the stallion. ‘In the meantime I need a good Thracian woman to make lots of babies with.’

It nibbled his elbow, ever hopeful for a treat.

‘If you want some barley, get a move on,’ he said in an affectionate growl. ‘I’m not stopping to give you a nosebag this near to the village.’

Above him and to his left, something scraped off rock, and he cursed silently for letting his attention lapse. Just because he’d encountered no one on the rough track that day didn’t mean that it was safe. Yet the gods had smiled on him for the whole journey from Bithynia. This was a time when most Thracians avoided the bitter weather in favour of oiling and storing their weapons in preparation for the following campaigning season. For a lone traveller, this was the best time to travel.

I’ve done well not to have run into any bandits thus far. These ones are damn close to my village. Let there not be too many of them. Pretending to stretch his shoulders and roll his neck, he stole a quick glance to either side. Three men, maybe four, were watching him from their hiding places on the rocky slopes that bordered the rough track. Unsurprisingly for Thrace, they seemed to be armed with javelins. He eyed the tinned bronze helmet that hung from the pack on the stallion’s rump, and decided against making a grab for it. Few peltasts could hit a man in the head. As for his shield, well, he could reach that while their first javelins were still in the air. If he was hit, his mail shirt would probably protect him. Trying to untie his thrusting spear would take too much time. He’d carry the fight to them with his sica, the curved Thracian blade that hung from his gilded belt. They were acceptable odds, he decided. As long as the brigands weren’t expert shots. Great Rider, watch over me with a ready sword.

‘I know you’re there,’ he called out. ‘You might as well show yourselves.’

There was a burst of harsh laughter. About thirty paces away, one of the bandits stood up. Merciless eyes regarded the traveller from a narrow face pitted with scars. His embroidered woollen cloak swung open, revealing a threadbare, thigh-length tunic. A greasy fox-skin cap perched atop his head. He had scrawny legs, and his tall calfskin boots had seen better days. In his left hand, he carried a typical pelte, or crescent-shaped shield, and behind it a spare javelin; in his right, another light spear was cocked and ready to throw.

No armour, and apart from his javelins, only a dagger in his belt, noted the traveller. Good. His friends will be no better armed.

‘That’s a fine stallion you have there,’ said the thug. ‘A pity that it’s lame.’

‘It is. If it wasn’t, you shitbags wouldn’t have seen me for dust.’

‘But it is, so you’re on foot, and alone,’ sneered a second voice.

The traveller looked up. The speaker was older than the first man, with a lined visage and greying hair. His hemp-woven clothing was equally ragged, but there was a fierce hunger in his brooding gaze. For all his poverty, his round shield was well made, and the javelin in his right fist looked to have seen good use. This was the most dangerous one. The leader. ‘You want the stallion, I suppose,’ the traveller said.

‘Ha!’ A third man stood up. He was larger than either of his companions; his arms and legs were heavily muscled, and instead of javelins, he carried a large pelte and a vicious-looking club. ‘We want it all. Your horse, your equipment and weapons. Your money, if you have any.’

‘We’ll even take your food!’ The fourth bandit was skeletally thin, with sunken cheeks and a sallow, unhealthy complexion. He had no shield, but three light spears.

‘And if I give you all that, you’ll let me go on my way?’ His breath plumed in the chill air.

‘Of course,’ promised the first man. His flat, dead eyes, and his comrades’ sniggers, gave the lie to his words.

The traveller didn’t bother answering. He spun around, muttering ‘Stay!’ to the stallion. Even as he slid his hand under his large circular shield and snapped the thong that held it in place, he heard a javelin zipping over his head. Another followed behind on a lower arc. It struck the dust between the horse’s hooves, making it skitter to and fro. ‘Calmly,’ he ordered. ‘You’ve been through this plenty of times before.’ Reassured by his voice, it settled.