Soldier of Rome: The Legionary (The Artorian Chronicles) (43 page)

“Keeping you from getting into trouble,” he said, showing the coin to her. “Like you said, it isn’t adultery if the service is paid for. And the way I see it, you owe me one denarius for my services. And now, I will bid you good night.” As he started for the door, Camilla started to climb out of the bed, only to find that her legs refused to function properly, and she landed in a heap on the floor.

Artorius laughed out loud, shook his head, and wandered out into the night.

“Artorius…wait.” Camilla found her entire body ached from the ordeal. He was, after all, perhaps two-and-a-half times her bodyweight, with strength, power, and endurance far beyond her comprehension; not to mention his deviancy and savagery. She shook her head and started giggling to herself about the entire affair as she curled up on the floor.

Chapter XXVII: The Legionary versus the Gladiator

***

The last day of the games took place two days before the triumphal parade. That morning members of the Second Century accompanied their optio to the gladiators’ entrance at the arena. Vitruvius was in full legionary armor. The terms of the wager were that no missile weapons would be allowed, that Vitruvius would use standard military arms, and that his unnamed opponent could use whatever weapons and armor he pleased.

It was dark and dank underneath the arena where the gladiators prepared themselves. It
stank
of sweat, flatulence, metal, and blood. Vitruvius turned to his friends.

“Go on and take your seats. I’ll meet up with you when this is over,” he directed.

With pats on the back and a few words of encouragement, the legionaries left their optio to his meeting with Sacrovir’s gladiator. As soon as they had gone, Vitruvius walked around, surveying everything in the dungeon. There were racks of weapons, most of which were semi-rusted and in need of work. He looked down at his own gladius, still strapped to his belt. His was a fine weapon, one that had served him for years. It would serve him effectively once again this day. But what was he fighting for?

In another part of the dungeon, on the other side of the arena, a small, sallow-faced man paced back and forth in front of his most prized possession. The gladiator was completely hidden in the shadows, but his deep, nasally breathing could be heard.

“Today will be your
finest day,” Sacrovir remarked as he continued to pace back and forth, “and I want you to make sure that pompous soldier suffers for his outrage towards us.  Make him bleed… hamstring him… humiliate him… make him
beg
for his death. Do that and you shall have whatever you ask.”

“I want
my freedom,” a deep voice boomed.

Sacrovir raised a hand
. “Don’t be presumptuous, man. You are my best fighter, my champion. Besides, you can understand that it would be bad business for me to release you upon society. Surely there is something else to satisfy your hunger? A certain girl, even a boy perhaps?”

“You promised me freedom a long time ago
. I have done everything you asked of me!” The voice was becoming loud and incensed.

“And so I did,” Sacrovir answered, raising his hands in resignation. Though his champion was by far the best gladiator he had ever owned, to say nothing of the wealth his victories had added to Sacrovir’s coffers, he was beginning to fear that he was slowly losing control of his
most prized fighter. “Very well, slay this uniformed upstart and you shall have your freedom. But I want a good show. I want this to be our finest hour, and I want that soldier begging for death before it is over. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes,
master.”

Why are you here, Vitruvius?
The optio asked himself.
Is it for glory, for prestige? No, these things mean nothing to you. What is it then? You are not one to stoop so low as to fight for money. Why then?
He continued to pace back and forth along the corridor leading to the arena. He could hear the sounds of gladiators fighting and the crowd screaming for blood. He then looked down at his arms, his chest, and his body in general. He was thickly set with powerful muscle, but not so bulky that it would slow his speed. By Mars, God of war, but his hands had slain many men! He had fought brave and tenacious warriors, yet he had always gotten the best of them, and mostly with little to no effort. Perhaps that was it. In spite of the uncountable
number of battles he fought, he had never felt himself to be in any danger. Not once had he even been so much as scratched by an assailant. That was it! He had never been truly challenged before!

The
men say you are the best close combat fighter to have ever lived. Yet this Sacrovir claims to have a gladiator that’s better than you. You simply want to know if, in fact, there is somebody better than you, don’t you? They always say that there is someone better out there. Perhaps he is here. If so, it is time to meet him.

As he paced back and forth in
contemplation, he saw a figure lurking in the shadows. Sacrovir strode towards him. Vitruvius forced himself to withhold a snort of disgust. Instead, he kept a hard yet unconcerned expression about him.

“Ready
for your meeting with immortality?” Sacrovir asked as he stopped in front of Vitruvius.

“What do you
want?” Vitruvius asked coldly.

“Just making sure the prey for my
champion is ready and fit to meet his fate,” Sacrovir replied, shrugging. He then interlocked his fingers, his hands in front of his chest, walking around Vitruvius and looking him up and down. “I do hope the army has trained you sufficiently. The crowd will want a spectacle, and what a shame it would be if you should die too quickly.”

“If you’ve come to try and unnerve me, you’re wasting your time,” Vitruvius remarked, watching as Sacrovir continued to walk around him
, looking as if he smelled something bad. By the Hammer of Vulcan, he really despised this man.

“But you
are
unnerved,” Sacrovir hissed, his face close to Vitruvius’ ear. “Your friends say you are some sort of god. They say you’ve killed more men than most of them combined. Yet you are assailed by doubts; doubts as to the true extent of your abilities. And you will never satisfy those until you can find the one who is truly your match. A god? All I see is a man, who when he walks down that corridor will begin his final journey to the land of the dead.”

With a flash Vitruvius slammed Sacrovir into a column, pinning him against it with his left arm. In the same instant he drew his gladius and placed the point against the smaller man’s throat. Remarkably, Sacrovir maintained his composure.

“You won’t even think about killing me. What a pity,” he said with much venom in his voice.

“And why not?” Vitruvius replied into his ear. “You said so yourself, I’ve killed more men than any. What does it matter if I add one more?”

“Because you are not above the law and to kill me would be murder. Then, instead of the privilege of dying at the hands of my champion, you’d have to settle for being strangled or perhaps thrown to the lions; how boring, how unoriginal,” Sacrovir sneered.

Vitruvius shoved his weight into Sacrovir, pressing his gladius point hard against the man’s neck. Sacrovir gasped
now in near panic. A trickle of blood started to seep from where the weapon was cutting into him. Vitruvius then withdrew his sword and stepped back. It was true; to kill Sacrovir now would be murder. As the disgusting little man started to breathe more easily, Vitruvius lunged forward and slammed his forehead into Sacrovir’s. The Gaul screeched
and fell back against the column, his hands over his face.

“I’m going to kill your champion,”
Vitruvius growled. “I’m going to run him through and deny the crowd and you the pleasure of any spectacle. Today, scum from Hell, you will see how
real
soldiers of Rome fight!” He then turned, grabbed his shield and helmet, and coolly walked down the long corridor leading to the arena.

It was
dark and foul smelling in the corridor, yet at the end shone a bright light. He could hear the chants and howls of the crowd. They were filled with blood lust and anticipation. Vitruvius slowed to a walk and started to breathe easier. He could not let Sacrovir unnerve him. To cause him to react in anger would only give his gladiator an advantage. He then started to calm himself, like he had hundreds of times before. This was nothing to him. He only had to face one man today. The threats and shouts from Sacrovir he heard from the dungeon only made him smile and relax.

“I will have your heart on a spit before I’m done with you, Optio Vitruvius of the Twentieth Legion! I curse you and all
soldiers of Rome!”

Vitruvius laughed and shook his head. He stopped just short of the entrance into the
arena, donned his helmet, took a deep breath, and waited for the orator to announce him.

The arena was packed beyond capacity for the final match of the day. Even the military seats were crowded with soldiers, anxious to see one of their own take down a famous gladiator in close combat. The orator stood in front of the Imperial box. Artorius was shocked to see that the Emperor Tiberius was in attendance for this event. Artorius sat towards the edge of their section and was surprised when he looked over into the next and saw Camilla with a man he could only assume to be her husband. To call him a ‘man’ was too generous. He was very thin with thick, curly hair, a hooked nose, and looked as if he were wearing some form of makeup. He turned his nose up at everything and talked in a loud voice to his friends who were gathered around him. Most looked equally effeminate. Artorius wondered if he was more interested in little boys than little girls.

He
noticed that Camilla was sitting with the side of her head resting on her left hand. Her stola pulled up around her neck in an obvious attempt to hide her marks from the night before. Her eyes gazed over his way, and she seemed startled to see him. Artorius sat back, smiled knowingly, and winked at her. She gave a half smile back, readjusted her palla to cover her neck up once more, and turned back to the games.

Artorius then noticed the silence that had overtaken the arena. He glanced over to see the Emperor standing. Tiberius
nodded to the orator who then turned to the crowd.

“Citizens of Rome!”
he began.
“On this final day of the triumphal games, commemorating the great victories wrought against the hordes of Germania, the Emperor is pleased to bring you one last match involving two of the most skilled combatants to have ever graced the arena. In an historic first, the Emperor has granted his blessings allowing one of the very legionaries who won victory for the Empire to compete in this match. Your Emperor presents to you Optio Marcus Vitruvius of the Twentieth Legion!”

The crowd came to its feet, applauding and shouting accolades as Vitruvius stepped into the arena. He looked very calm as he
stepped to the center of the arena in front of the imperial box.

“His opponent,”
the orator continued,
“is not unknown to many of you. In thirty-two matches, he has not been defeated. His name is legendary in the east, as well as in North Africa. The Emperor is pleased to give you…Nubandi!”

On the other side of the arena, a
gigantic African walked through the portal. Many in the crowd erupted in a frenzy of cheers.  They had placed bets on whom the “mystery” gladiator would be, hoping he was a favorite of theirs, along with betting on the outcome of the match.

The African giant
looked to be nearly two and a half meters tall, with muscles the size of tree trunks. He was completely bald with a slim mustache gracing his upper lip and reaching down to his chin, his black skin shone with oil. He wore no armor, only a leather loin cloth and studded metal belt. In his hands he carried a huge round iron shield and a broadsword that any other man would have required two hands to pick up, let alone use. He walked arrogantly and confidently into the arena, just a few meters from where Vitruvius stood eyeing him.

The
optio was surprisingly calm. He scanned his opponent, not in reverence, but rather in the method that a man looks for weaknesses in the one he is about to destroy.

Alright
,Vitruvius, he’s big and he doesn’t look too happy,
he thought. He did not find that he was afraid of his opponent. Whenever it came time for battle, instinct took over. Perhaps he
was
the best there ever was. If he was, he was going to prove it to all of Rome soon enough. He started to assess his target.

He’s too tall to strike in the face, though if I get
in close enough I might be able to catch him under the chin. I cannot tell how fast he is, though I must assume that if he’s used to putting on spectacles, he’s probably in good condition but slowed down by his bulk.

“Good gods, that man is big!” Praxus observed.

“That’s no man, that’s a fucking beast
.” Camillus remarked.

“He makes even Vitruvius look small,” Magnus added.

“Since when have you ever been intimidated by the size of those you’ve fought?” Artorius asked. “Think about all those giants you slew in Germania.”

“Those giants were dwarfs compared to that…thing,” Magnus remarked.

“Since when has size been everything?” Carbo asked, offhandedly.

Valens gave him a perplexed look.
“Since when has it not?”

“Hey, we do need to have a
little
faith in Vitruvius,” Camillus replied, ignoring the off-color remarks of the young legionaries. “Remember, he doesn’t appreciate pain very much, so I doubt that he’ll let this guy hurt him.”

“Say, where’s Decimus?” Praxus asked, looking around.

“I don’t know, but the match is about to start without him,” Artorius said, leaning forward onto the edge of his seat.