Excerpt

EMPIRE OF THE GODS - THE GOD CONSPIRACY

The Almost Completed Flavian Amphitheater—Exhibition Game—79 AD .

 

Over 85,000 fight fans boo loudly—hot and cranky, jammed standing in the aisles.  Three matched pairs on the sand are playing around, just running out the clock, a boring exercise, not real combat. A paying sponsor could not be found to buy a real battle, so the gladiator-master has them phonying up the performance, no blood. A fifty piece orchestra with a shrill hydraulic valve organ plays, accompanied by drums and cymbals, bass horns, a jumpy little tune about a rabbit and weasel, mocks the poor showing.

Marius and some other praetorians cruise for girls, work their way through six acres of marble and elaborate masonry, arches, ramps, columns and statues. They’re descending an aisle from the cheap seats on the fifth level, solidly drunk, off-duty, dressed in required tunics and formal toga. They have selected some painted girls with bangles and oiled hair, made bargains for their time.

Marius swigs wine from a jug, hand on the girl’s lush rear, watches the slow action on the field in disgust, and mutters, “Fuck this!”

“Yeah, Marius,” Kalchus says, “and this one too,” grabs his date by her behind and she squeals in pretend protest, “In fact, old buddy,” Kalchus says,” let’s fuck every last one of them.” Kalchus laughs and they move down the aisle toward their reserved seats 150 feet below in the wealthy Equestrian section, only fourteen rows back from the sand, right on the half-line of the ellipse. Marius glances at the bad acting down on the sand now, swigs his unwatered wine. He stops to watch the gladiators—drunk, sways, makes a grab for one of the girls as she bubbles past, “Hey, Venus, get over here…” but only snags her long, silk scarf, which she walks out of and keeps going.  He stares at the scarf in his hand. He glances up at a loud noise. The gigantic, multi-colored awning that covers the open amphitheater flaps in a breeze. It casts dappled colors on marble, and white Egyptian sand—pastel hues flap and flow, make his head swim. He sways, looks down at the lumbering gladiators, mutters, “Awful.”

He looks up at the awning and stares at it too long, suddenly staggers backward, and grabs an overhead cable for support. He curses the gladiators to himself, “Shit…they looked more militant parading in. The acrobats an’ the aminals…the animinals…the, uh, the fucking beasts were better than this shit!”

Down on the pitch, one of the “dead” sword-men is being hauled away through the squat Arch Of Death by a slave with a hook and chain, but Marius sees it’s fake, the guards are joking with the “deceased,” his lips moving.

“He ain’ dead…bastards…give the sacrament a bad name…”

Marius hangs onto the cable to stop the arena from spinning, runs his hand along it. His lolling eye follows the cable’s length—whoa! goes allll the wayy down to the bloody, damn blood-pit.

He gets what seems like a good idea. Tottering in place, he masks himself with the girl’s long scarf around head and face, ties it off in the back, the way he saw it done in Judea.

Muttering, he unbuckles his leather and steel cingulum belt, unclips and stuffs the scabbarded  praetorian dagger into his clothing. He whips the cingulum over the cable in a jingling snap, grabs he ends in both hands and—with scarf streaming out behind him like a comet’s tail—he launches himself screaming from the shadows into sunlit space, and clatters down the 160 foot long cable in a launch that smashes him into the sand like a bolt from a crossbow. Flat on his back, he stares up uncomprehendingly at the gigantic awning, the silhouetted catwalks, grids, levitation machinery and cranes—the sky a small, hot blue circle in the center of it all…what the shitting fuck…? And doesn’t quite realize what he’s just done, sliding down here, “Uhh..” head pounding. He looks for a way out, but the cable has snapped, and it’s gone. He’s cut off from the stands by the planked, inner security fence, then the moat, then the fifteen foot high marble wall, then an overhang of elephant tusks strung with wire netting.

He glances nervously at the arched animal entrances. There’s no sign of burning straw that might force the beasts out here—Yet!

But, at this moment, deep beneath the arena, far below sand, floorboards, heavy beams and concrete, underneath the elevators, lower than the rooms, passages, animal pens, holding areas, and other sections of the basement—down below the dark sub-basement—in a secret torch-lit grotto, chained to a rock, the naked Demon Suleimon’s eyes snap open. The mutilated face turns upward, stares at the stone vault.

Back up in the stands, the mob has discovered Marius on the sand. Their cheers and laughter provoke his theatrical side—the exhibitionist in him—and his antics make them laugh. He walks around flashing obscene gestures at the gladiators, showmanship learned at the ludus. The guards don’t remove him, because nobody realizes it’s not part of the games.

In his first-level private box is Nerva, newly appointed to the honorific post of Senatorial co-Consul. He entertains important senators and military officers, laughs at the masked clown on the sand.  Nerva nearly spills his wine cup, shouts, “Look!” Some drunk down there! Dead man walking there!“ they laugh, glad for comic relief to the boring fight.

Seated nearby, Nerva's slave Odysseus sees it differently. He recognizes classic Greek theatrical training in the jester. He leans close, and says to Nerva , “This comedian’s had Greek schooling…gods, I hope he’s not some loose slave,” glances around apprehensively.

Marius staggers over to where the gladiators chop listlessly at each other. He sways there, just outside their reach, arms folded. He shakes his head in theatric criticism, makes “tsk-tsk” noises at them.  Laughter and cheers from the mob, constant noise. He pivots and acknowledges them, bows to them, while showing his back offensively to the gladiators. The gladiators stop to look at him and one sucker-kicks him in the backside, knocks  him down onto the sand. Marius rolls over, and makes a “sand angel” with his arms, rolls over, and then “swims” away. The mob roars. Marius rolls onto his back and does a snap-up to his feet. He dusts off, makes an obscene gesture at the gladiators, and blows kisses at them.

An angry fighter lunges, and chases him around the field while Marius mugs and makes gestures to the crowd, like, I get no respect! Somebody has to do this, but why me!  all in expert theatrical pantomime. Laughter and hoots and whistles fill the arena, the mob stomp their feet rhythmically, wave hats and scarves.

One of Nerva’s guests shouts, “Part of the act!” and breaks into laughter, claps Nerva  on the shoulder, “This is great!” Nerva  laughs, shoots a quick look at the Emperor’s box on the podium, twenty feet above the sand, where Vespasian isn’t laughing and doesn’t look pleased. Some nervous VIPs in the front row turn around to look up at him and gauge his mood.

“Nerva  shouts back to the senator, “Yeah!” tries to get Odysseus’ attention. 

On the pitch Marius stops running and turns to face the gladiator who halts in a skid, wary of a trick. Marius sways, still drunk, getting a hangover now.

He says to the gladiator, “How ya doin’?”

The gladiator stares at him in disbelief.

Marius grins at him brightly. The gladiator snarls, swings his weapon, but Marius staggers back, avoids the blow and takes the gladiator’s sword away in a deceptively “clumsy” movement. The mob is startled into a murmur, just above the never-ending buzz and rustle. But then an ovation erupts, stomping.  Marius does a stylized little victory strut to the mob, lots of hip-thrust and sexual projection, the way he was taught at the ludus, and the sound rises to a delighted roar. The gladiator lunges and tries to take his sword back, but Marius seems to stumble and trips him onto the pitch face-down, raises his arms to the mob, grins, turns in a slow pivot.

Outside the walls is Rome. Half this city of a million people hear the roar go up at the Flavian, excitement. The call is heard by travelers twenty miles away. They stop to listen and marvel. The arena, beating heart of Rome itself. Sports news moves fast in this city. With the speed of an avalanche, word rolls through Roman homes and apartment houses. It spreads like a flood through public buildings, brothels, drug dens, restaurants, libraries, and forums. Work stops in hospitals—patients try to leave for the arena—police and fire stations empty out, the news flows through social clubs, and the sprawling water-cooled public squares.

People rush for the amphitheater to see for themselves what’s happening. Pedestrians, merchants in carts, nobles in palanquins, some on horseback, a river of flesh, they jam the streets and squares, flow toward the great amphitheater, and set up their own clatter of noise. A half a million spirits reach out, concentrate, focus on the destination: the Flavian—and upon Marius. He feels it—the sudden attention—an electric sting in his center. The mob’s focus arouses him, a surge more exciting than battle. Sound, waves, amplitudes, frequencies never heard before—the breath of Zeus probes him.

He launches a dance of mockery at the gladiators. The orchestra unleashes its own sarcastic version of a tune called The Chickens And The Wolf. In the dugout the gladiators’ outraged and suffering gladiator-master  shouts, “Who the fuck is this guy! I‘ll kill this sunnovabitch!” Slaves and other masters try to calm him. Someone sends for the chief executive.

Marius is part of the mob itself now, its energy, cheers for himself, shoots fists into the air, taunts the gladiators—hand up on top of his head with fingers spread like a rooster’s comb, he struts and screeches, “Eh-Aeh-Aehhh! Eh-Aeh-Aehhh!”

In the stands, Odysseus is thinking, Pretty good rooster imitation, haven’t heard one that good, since…and hand goes to beard, eyes widen in disbelief.

Marius doesn’t notice the new play orders get run out onto the pitch by a slave, or the way the gladiators encircle him from behind. He’s too busy with his dance routine.   The crowd points and laughs, he turns almost too late but catches the gladiator’s descending arm, twists away the sword, whirls, and flips him across the ground. The gladiator crashes into the sand and skids for a few feet. Marius takes a bow, and then goes into encore dances. He mugs, Oh, shit! They’ll really kill me now.  I love you—kisses! Bye-bye! bows to cheers and rhythmic stomping. One entire section of seats is waving game cards in unison, like leaves in a shifting wind.

The gladiators rush Marius in a group, swords cleave the air with a hiss like arrows, but he whirls—takes their weapons away and kills them all. 

Pandemonium. Deafening noise erupts in a vast geyser from out of the elliptical arena, a column of sound that grows up and up, and never stops. Sixty-five thousand  voices saturated with delight, desire, fear—the voice of humanity. Each pagan cry is a sacrament to the gods. The eruption of unending noise climbs, it burgeons, and spreads out, a vast, invisible tree of sound across the spotless sky, until it cannot bear the vibration any longer, and it collapses, in an avalanche of sound. The sound is directed straight at Marius, in the center of the machine that is the Colosseum. He’s at the bottom-center of  a vast, sonic cauldron, the hammered air focused upon him, through him, vibrates in his mouth and throat, lungs, sinuses, ear canals and brain, vibrates with the genetic battle cry—the signature shout and frequency of humanity. His blood resonates—arteries, veins, and capillaries—pulsates and throbs, enzymes burst from cell walls, alkali secretions flood his system, adrenaline surges, strange and unknown compounds seep from deeper regions, molecules throw off electrons that tunnel into new realms, and change him forever. The blood of Hercules bleeds from his marrow.

Deep beneath the Amphitheater, in the grotto vault, imprisoned there by black magic—Suleimon senses the flood of pheromones above, the scent of mutation, a new god there—he shivers and shudders with desire. Covered in a sheen of black fire, he runs in a charge, lurches out to the stops of his chains and they ring out, but he cannot break them. His agonized body and thrashing arms reach,  trembling fingers implore a mystical object covered in black fire that licks up to the vaulted roof. The Demon Bowl of Asmodeus flames there on a pedestal below the exact center of the Amphitheater above. In the Bowl, stolen souls from the arena boil, wet, oily, reddened in agony, ripped from the freshly dead bodies above.

In the stands, far above the grotto, in his private box, Nerva  is awed by the killing display he’s just witnessed, six men killed at once by a lone, masked fighter, “Beautifully done! Incredible! Exotic!” to a senator and some officers, “Breathtaking!” but no one can hear, and no one is listening, the uproar is overwhelming, no one is immune to excitement and urge to cheer. Nerva feels a tug at his shoulder. Odysseus stares at him, like he’s just seen Hades on a horse. Nerva pulls him close, sober suddenly, “What is it?”

Nerva follows the old man’s frightened eyes down into the arena—to the master killer on the sand. He stares and suddenly grasps what he already somehow knew. The lone fighter masked like a Judean nomad warrior stands in the center of the arena, his back spear-straight, unconcerned, balanced, a knee casually bent; a densely muscled arm points the glittering sword straight up overhead in familiar military fashion, poised. A smooth tension ripples beneath the unblemished skin, hard sinews like garrote wire. The forearms are massive, made on a chopping post, a soldier, or gladiator. Distinctive. Nerva  goes dead white and chilled. He turns to look at Odysseus. He stares, his face a question. The old man just closes his eyes and nods once. Nerva knows who the man is. I should have seen it…

They almost clutch each other, whisper fiercely, eyes darting around for spies, Nerva  says in Odysseus’ ear, “It’s illegal! A praetorian can’t fight in the arena! They’ll execute him for this! It’ll fall on me, I sponsor him!” Nerva squirms on his bench like a monkey. His eyes suddenly go wide, “god, look at Vespasian! He’s going to summon Marius to the Imperial box!”

Odysseus grabs Nerva’ wrists, and nearly hisses, “Shut up! Don’t say his name!” gets control of his voice, “Calm down.” He scans his master’s face, “You look guilty of something,” glances around, says, “Smile, look happy, and for gods’ sake, don’t say his name, they don’t know it’s him, they don’t know he's praetorian. Relax, nobody knows it’s him, we can get him out of there. We can.”

Breezes whip through the overhead canopy, a drum roll of taut fabric, the snap of bright pennants. In the dug-out, the crazed gladiator-master hammers his own head against a wall—feels made the fool by Marius, enraged at the huge financial loss in dead gladiators. The crowd roars, stomps to its feet, something new, hysteria—fresh blood. The gladiator-master stops and grins, gazes up from beneath heavy, dark brows, and across the arena. An armored Murmillo style fighter has burst up out of the ground in a spray of sand, shot by elevator into the noon circle of hot light, like a god. His ornate bronze and gold helmet gleams with gorgeous symbols and friezes from mythology,  a big shield, fantastically emblazoned, glittering sword, greaves to his upper thighs, armored left arm, and he’s muscled like a power lifter. He’s a siege engine that walks. The mob grows silent at the sight of this glorious fighting machine. Ribbons and tassels tied at the elbows and knees of the Murmillo jingle with tiny bronze bells when he moves.

In the flickering grotto deep beneath the Flavian, Suleimon stares into the Bowl. Mystic incised symbols run and spiral with blue fire along its sides, an emanation of the Demon trapped within. Souls of the gladiators still swirl in the Bowl, a crimson mix. They vanish, are consumed—lost forever in the ravenous, cosmic maw of Asmodeus. Suleimon’ twists his head up, a snarling face wrenched parallel with the vaulted roof, great jaws wrenched open in a bass bellow. The roar would disorient and paralyze a man—a slam to the chest. Stones vibrate and dust shatters down.

Back up on the sand, a sunlit drama begins. The mob cheers, as the gladiators make their opening poses, and the leering gladiator-master whirls to watch the fight, shouts unheard into a sudden explosion of sound, "How do you like it now motherfucker! Nobody makes me an ass!” His arms and fists spike the air, while slaves and other masters try to restrain him. “Nobody kills my property for free! Nobody throws me my own swords and tells me to run!”

The Murmillo preens for the mob, moves to show himself off to everyone, lets the sun glitter over his oiled muscles, the expensive polished armor trimmed in gold and silver with depictions of war, battle, mythology, and gods. There’s a swelling blast of recognition as the mob realizes this is the popular Magnus, greatest Murmillo that ever lived, an ex Senior Centurion who quit for gladiatorial life, undefeated champion of the Legions, and never beaten in 107 arena combats, with 105 perfect kills.

Gratified, he pivots and salutes Marius, who wipes blood from his eyes to study the Murmillo. Nothing unusual there...Marius thinks, tired, hung over, head about to explode. He assumes a neutral stance, returns the salute casually, and runs through a mental litany of standard defenses against the Murmillo format.

Acting bored, playing to the mob, Magnus tosses his gladius into the air with his right hand, does a backward flip with shield, switches hands, lands on his feet and catches the twirling sword in his left hand. He immediately goes to one knee, whirls though a series of advanced practice forms at blinding speed, vaults into the air, and comes down in a crouch, then he advances.

Marius smiles. He launches the Druwyyd war chant he learned in the Second Augusta, leaps into the air, grimaces, eyes bulge, tongue protrudes down to his chin in defiance, and shouts in Ceiltic, “Death! Death! Death!"

The mob startles. Marius, stomps through the martial postures and poses of Druwyyd combat—arms ram, fists stab, grip, flex, his thighs bright with sweat, sword flashes in the air, “Death! Death! Death!" The mob explodes in a geyser of excited howls and cheers.

The two killers close, swords move slowly through the air in front of them, gently feel the way, small movements and delicate sweeps through the glittering sunlight. They circle—then circle back the other way, weapons wave like insectoid feelers in the slow heat. They flow away from each other to widen the kill zone, close broodingly to narrow it with moves that flow across the sand—each senses the other's power, double edged swords gesture soothingly, floaters on air, sun careens from their razor edges in hypnotic rippling flares, the arena drained of noise.

Someone up high in the bleachers coughs.

The fighters move, whisk sound of sand, sandal laces click, flexed leather arm guards creak. Magnus coils and uncoils across the zone, then reverse—glide back, feet like ghosts, whisk and slither. Move, turn, feint, pivot, slide—but suddenly—Marius is on him, blade a humming windmill of death, and the clash is on, a fight to the death.

Marius uses his advantage of speed and light armament, everything he’s got—sword, knees, elbows, shield—jams himself in close, bulls the man back by momentum and weight, shove him back, shove him back, the loud clang of raw bronze, and again, and again, sharp—they separate, matched, equal, swords curls lazily in the air, measure each other anew. Magnus with his heavy gear is nearly invulnerable, uses economy of movement. Marius, in fast, bears down and in close, a side-snap kick to the thigh, spin-kick to the helmet, slash at the arm, lunge—feint back—kick to the groin, pommel smash to the helmet, pommel-smash again, cross-guard smash to the elbow, steel on steel rings like chimes in the whispery air of the arena. Marius, aggressive—dances now back away from the advancing Murmillo. Marius tired, Magnus walks, takes his time, watches Marius, Magnus' head cocked, astute, gauges Marius' fatigue.

 Magnus touches sword to shield like a boxer knocking leather, clears his mind. Marius retreats, but Magnus is on him in a flare of armor, a clean kick to the ribs, smashes the heavy shield into the face of Marius, Magnus brings his sword up and over in a whistling blur, a downward chop that could take off Marius' arm and Marius falls, sword takes the blow while he falls away, the fall dissipates the force, but his sword shatters with a sizzle and ring of steel—screams ferociously away, as Magnus’ own sword sings down the broken blade to Marius cross-guard, the shock stuns Marius’ hand numb, but not before he screams in pain.

Marius turns and runs, looks for a sword, a shield, but Magnus has him covered. There’s no route that does not lead to death. Marius turns, runs the other way, but the Murmillo has calculated the angles and geography, takes a few steps, and there is no path that is out of his reach. Breathing lightly, he says to the bleeding Marius, “Checkmate, smartass.” His skill with the kill zone is perfect. Marius has met his match, an equal, the death-twin that all gladiators fear. Tired, and hurt, no way to reach another sword, Marius is cornered, empty-handed, no escape.

 I don’t want to die…In Marius' mind, the old tunnel of fire explodes again open before him, fills the arena, twists upward like a tornado through the awning’s sunny oculus and out into the sky and black space. Paralyzed, he is the face of terror, invisible behind his silk mask, and he staggers back, stumbles, and falls onto the blood-clotted sand.

Magnus thinks, A trick! glides in low, left foot first, right foot balanced wide and back, sword caresses the air in liquid flow, weaves an insectoid enchantment of death. He grins inside his helmet, flexes his wrist and launches the death blow. Marius blurs to his feet—almost. He stumbles back, too fast, feet too deep in the sand, wrong—twists an ankle, and smashes his back against the wall where an iron spike drops him to his knees in agony. Magnus charges for the kill, his victory roar fills his  bulging throat. Marius is on his feet, with the dagger he’d hidden now in hand and drives it deep into Magnus' neck,  severs the fourth vertebra.

The gladiator crashes to the ground like a puppet with cut strings, gouts blood into the sand—killed by the eleven inch, wasp-waisted knife Marius had drunkenly tucked away an hour ago, his military issue pugio dagger, specially forged for the Black Wolves.

Pandemonium envelopes the arena, the mob on its feet screaming, throwing flowers, food, and coins onto the sand. Even military men, and the Imperial Guard itself, are overwhelmed—spellbound by the absolute brilliance of the masked fighter's skill, like nothing ever seen in Rome—Magnus, unbeatable before today—now cut down by a superior warrior. In a world filled with spirits, and divinities everywhere, the mob decides he’s a demi-god, calls him by the ancient name for the Guardian Of Rome, The Soul Of Athena, “Militus...! Militus...! Militus...!”

Caesar Vespasian watches the ecstatic mob, his face grim. The politician in him seethes with jealousy, works out how to steal the power this hero has taken from him, the love of the mob. Vespasian rises, smiling. He gestures theatrically in a manner that sets off dramatic gleams from his armor and Imperial array. He acknowledges the cheering mob, beams at them, holds his arms out, turns to his left and then to his right. Between clenched teeth, he asks a handler, “How do I look?” and receives the mandatory verdict, “Like a god, Caesar, like a god.”

Caesar turns to the masked man down on the pitch and gestures Imperial approval. He makes a grand drama of it, does it broadly—theatrically—he tosses his own purse of gold coins at the fighter’s feet. This ignites the adoring mob beyond excess, their collective bellow echoes across the entire city like the crash of falling breakers, “Sspasianhhh…! Sspasianhhh…!Sspasianhhh…!" Adulation for the masked hero and for the people’s choice, Vespasian—each a god—empire without end. Vespasian knows that this exaltation is heard throughout the entire city, and far into the countryside, a broadcast of proof—his greatness and popularity—a stunning success of public relations for his Flavian Amphitheater before it’s even completed. He’s happy. And now to steal the power, use it for his own.

But, there is a silent witness to the crime committed here today by Marius. The Praetorian Procurator Arius happened to be looking directly at the masked fighter’s hand the moment of the deathblow, a Praetorian dagger, a special issue weapon for Black Wolves only. The fighter is a Praetorian. Arius knows the penalty is death for a Praetorian fighting in the arena. It’s his duty to arrest the masked fighter, expose him, and have him torn apart by horses, disemboweled while still alive, hung to strangle slowly, and then fed to dogs, all part of a holy ritual. But Arius’ stomach clenches as he considers the wrath of the adoring mob, the political implications, and the ultimate disgrace of the Praetorian Guard no matter what course he chooses.

Marius, now sober, is beginning to realize this very possibility himself, and hunts for an exit other than the massive Arch Of Death, where potentially he could end up, dragged out dead on an iron hook. But men with spears suddenly encircle him, Arius’  personal bodyguard , praetorian elite, by their pomaded hair and lack of any armor. Arius stands near the wall, bends and picks out of the sand the same military belt Marius used to slide down the cable. Its vertical chains display military awards, campaign medals, unit insignia—and Marius’ identity. Arius specifically recalls  this soldier was promoted in the field by Vespasian personally, and that he’s part of the Emperor’s own familia, a full cliente. The officer is torn—between duty to arrest Marius and the political danger for the Emperor: Vespasian would be dangerously exposed to his eternally waiting enemies. Arius curses to himself.

Shit. This traps Caesar between his enemies, the law, the mob…and me…why me...

Arius looks around. Half the city has forced its way into the Flavian. It blocks the arcades, aisles, and stairways, and starts to spill out on the sand itself. His Praetorians here could never hold them. There’s only one cohort at the palace and two more outside the city. It's gone too far, can't be stopped…Arius sees his own career exterminated in the scandal. He stares at Marius. All because of this bastard! But like any professional at his level, he also knows there’s political opportunity in calamity. Don’t do anything yet, Arius…he says to himself, no fast moves...think... He takes his time. He tucks the cingulum into a pocket. He leaves the cordon of his Praetorians in place, makes his way to the stands, and goes straight for his waiting advisors and operatives.

Nerva  slumps in his box, resigned to death by execution for Marius’ transgression of holy Imperial law, decades of  his own advancement and plotting thwarted, his wealth, estates, and slaves confiscated—his coveted shot at the throne gone. Odysseus grips Nerva ’ wrist, whispers sharp as a needle, “Stop it! Control yourself. I can get people loyal to me—they’ll keep their mouths shut, keep him masked, sneak him out to my network once he enters the under-theater. Pull yourself together.”

But back in the dugout, the enraged gladiator-master whom Marius has offended is berserk at his losses and has set a disaster in motion, an explosion on the pitch, and a huge iron pyramid erupts out of the ground from an elevator pit. Sand falls from the air in a hissing rattle. Something monstrous inside the iron pyramid bangs at the riveted plates, bends them outwards in an assault that echoes across the stone circumference of the Flavian—like a god hammering. The crazed gladiator-master is behind this, pushed over the edge, made a fool by Marius. He's lost his gladiators to Marius without reimbursement. He's lost his huge payment already made to Magnus’ syndicate, who failed to kill Marius. He's lost his huge side-bet placed on Magnus to win, which would have covered all his losses. So now he's killed two guards, broken into the producer's suite, and pulled the signal on the master games package to release this monster of revenge.

On cue, slaves in the under-theater pull release pins, and the pyramid's sides are battered apart from within, the crash of iron panels. Enraged, a great, impossible, twelve-foot-tall, 2000 pound bear rips the air with a roar that freezes movement and grips human organs in a paralyzing crush of sound, the largest land predator on Earth. The roar stuns Marius with its power, and he clutches his chest, feels like his organs are being hammered out of him, wave pressure in his head reverberates in the bone and staggers him back against the wall.

The bear rears to its full height in a killing rage, massive, huge—twice the size of a horse, head larger than a man’s entire torso, a vast maw like some legendary monster, big enough to engulf an entire sheep. It slashes the air with paws the size of dinner plates, five inch claws, arms that can drag a bull up a mountainside. With black snout pointed at the sky, massive head weaving, the terrible jaws split wide—dripping, fanged, and in a bass bellow as if out of a canyon, it roars its anger. And roars. And roars. And roars again. The arena shakes. The mob is stunned into silence.

The bear swings its massive face toward Marius, then drops to its paws in a dusty huff of muscle. Floorboards rattle in their sockets. And then it charges. The arena booms and thumps, shakes to its foundation as the monster gallops, fast as a horse, directly at Marius—who throws a protective hand up but the bear hits him. Dazed, vision tunneling and dark, Marius remembers his trek of long ago, thinks, …the mountain lion’s face inches from mine, its fangs and yellow eyes, then—Bebhionne’s hand came out of nowhere, smoothed the fur, rubbed the ears...

Marius opens his eyes. He can't believe what he sees. The bear just stands there, lips drooling. It's ears twitch, each the size of a man's hand.  Dizzy, Marius reaches out and scratches an ear. The monster sighs. It nuzzles him. It makes a low contentment rumble. It licks and grooms Marius’ hair. Then, the bear collapses onto the sand with a huff, and rolls onto its back, paws in the air, tongue lolling out. It begs Marius for a belly rub.

A murmur of wonder breaks from the stands. In the dugout, the gladiator-master goes berserk. He grabs a helmet depicting Nemesis, Goddess of Vengeance, claps it on and slams the gleaming bronze face grills shut. He bursts from the dugout hunched over a seven foot knife-blade spear, screams, "I'll kill you motherfucker!" Slaves and other masters try to grab him, but he’s on the sand, launched at Marius. Marius turns to the new threat, a full out Thracian spear charge. Marius gets to his feat. He’s tired. He’s hurt. He’s hung over and starving, and now his head throbs with bursting rage, doesn’t it ever stop… He loses his breath, vision goes black, a hot knife in the brain, blood like molten iron. He grabs his head, staggers, and collapses to his knees. The charging maniac shrieks and runs onward, spear raised high for the killing thrust—but the gigantic bear reaches a paw out and rips his head off, hurls it away, spinning out blood in red arcs. The bear bites the broken torso, shakes it and spatters blood everywhere. It rips out bloody chunks of the dead man and swallows them whole. The starving bear sits down to have its meal.

The Roman mob cheers deliriously. This day has been the most inspirational display of gladiatorial artistry and miracles ever seen. To them the masked fighter is sent from Zeus to inspire and instruct them, to fill them with spirit and the old values of a good death, given or received.  In a land where gods and spirits are everywhere, a new god is not unusual. Even the jaded Praetorian Guard have found a hero, a spiritual and martial leader, the greatest fighter who ever lived, and they must have him for their own. Emperors come and go, but the Guard is eternal. The praetorians will have their Hero, one way or the other. They send a delegation with demands to their Legate, Arius.

The crowd surges—on fire with worship of a sports super star and demi-god combined. They break past the ushers and guards out onto the sacrificial field. Word pours through the streets of Rome—A Hero is alive among us, a god!  Romans flow toward the great Flavian Amphitheater. Imperial Vigiles try to outrun them, warn the Flavian guard it is going to be overwhelmed. A great rolling wave surges through the streets, for a worshipful glimpse of the newly born god.

Vespasian, wine cup forgotten halfway to his lips, is shaken by what he’s just witnessed, and by the flood of new supplicants to this masked Hero. I’ve lost them, the love of the mob, the love of Rome, and the world…all this and my arena—fifty tons of gold and silver—all gone, all spent, for nothing...He flinches, as Titus shows up at his side, hand on sword, with a dozen armored Praetoriani loyal to him. Shaken, Vespasian looks around, “You’re here to take my throne?” His eyes move from face to face, “Is it your time to kill me?” Titus doesn’t answer. He exchanges charged looks with his men. Vespasian sits straight in his throne, rips the silk scarf from around his neck, “Get it done, then!”

Titus says, “Caesar, I’m here to protect you.” Vespasian stares at him. “I’m here because your enemies want to use this bastard, down there,” moves his head toward Marius, “They want to steal the mob and the Praetoriani from you, unless we get to this guy, this masked fool, first. Our sources in the streets, the Under Way, tells me it’s happening right now, people are talking all over, moving fast, the familias, syndicates, gangs, the clandestine operations, I guarantee they all want to move us out and put themselves in! Your base—your enemies are already thinking on how to take it away. They’ll challenge the Throne all at once, or in pieces, but they’ll do it, unless we move, right now.”

But Caesar seems distracted. Arius and his powerful sponsors crowd into the box.  Arius moves close to Vespasian, salutes, “Caesar! I have information.” He leans in, “That man in the mask,”  nods toward Rome’s new leading man.

“Yes? What is it, Arius?”

Arius moves in closer, says in Caesar’s ear, “I have reason to believe he’s your cliente, our own Tribune Marius Telumus.”

“…the Praetorius?”

“Yes. Maybe.” Arius hands Vespasian the cingulum he found, “This was in the sand, at the end of the cable he used to slide down into the arena.”

Vespasian stares at the cingulum, turns it over, identifies the battle ribbons, reads, Marius Relevo Telumus, Equester, Praetorius…Marius, a knight of Rome. Vespasian looks up at Arius, his face is doubt. His eyes wander to the commotion all around and on the sand—pandemonium—he's dazed.

Arius tries to get his attention, “Sire, please listen to me. That man down there used a Black Wolf pugio to kill Magnus. I witnessed it myself.” Arius pauses to let this sink in, Marius’ betrayal of the Guard, the law, blasphemy, and disgrace—but Caesar Vespasian looks blank.

Arius says, “Sire! Can you hear me?” and looks around at the others, alarmed. What’s wrong with him? Arius grasps Vespasian’s wrist-guard, says “Sire, this man—Marius Telumus and the political forces that are piling up behind him—what are your orders? What do you want done?” He looks to the son Titus, who just stares at his father, the distracted Caesar. Arius notices Caesar’s ambitious second son Domitian, hovers nearby with his secret police, thinks, You smell blood, little man, don’t you, well not mine, not today, and you’ll just have to wait to become Caesar…

 Arius’ lips come close to Vespasian’s ear. “Caesar. I have a shooter hidden in the catwalks,” raises his eyes discreetly to the nest of ropes, bamboo girders, and heavy sheeting up above. Arius lowers his eyes. “Sire,” he says, “your orders…you need to make a decision.” Thinks, Do it! Or you take us all down!

Vespasian gives back the cingulum, says. “Marius is the man who found the Relic at Jerusalem, remember? I decorated him myself, promoted him to knight in the field. He’s the one who did the miracles at Gamala. Remember?” Vespasian glazes over. He says, “This thing today—all those men he killed so easily, Magnus dead, and now this bear thing—Mehercle! Look now!” points into the ellipse of sand, “He’s leading the bear to a holding pen—the gods are on his side! I’m abandoned.” Vespasian turns, looks into Arius’ eyes, and says “The gods are stealing my Empire. What can I do against the gods?”

Arius takes the cingulum back, thinks, Mehercle! His balls are gone… He says, “Maybe the gods are stealing it, but Marius isn’t arrow-proof," glances up into the rigging of the awnings, says, "If he’s gone, so’s their ploy to use him. Look, I don’t know if you heard me…over all this racket. I said I have a shooter up in the rigging. He's got a repeating crossbow, poisoned bolts.”

Vespasian focuses his eyes on Arius, and then says, “All right…but first get me out of here.”

Arius signals his men—but all plans are abruptly tossed heels over head, as thousands more Romans surge into the amphitheater. The mob manifests what the Roman powerticians fear most: its own overwhelming crush and supremacy, the largest city on the planet, one million people. And in the name of this new masked, demi-god superstar,  the Praetorian Guard itself has become part of the mob. There is no security for Vespasian, and his exit is cut off. There is no way for anyone to get out, only in. The situation is dire, near to exploding in a vast sports riot. Vespasian hears his name shouted by countless voices.

“Spasian…! Spasian…! Spasian…!”

His hand flies to his sword and his eyes to his officers, “Arius! They’ll kill me!” he shouts, but Arius is staring at the field below, eyes wide at what he sees there, why the mob yells.

“Spasian…! Spasian…! Spasian…!”

 From his own box, Nerva sees it too, takes deep breaths, one after the other, manages to say to Odysseus, “I can’t believe it!”

The masked Marius stands just below Vespasian’s box with dagger held high in salute to Vespasian. Then, Marius turns in a slow pivot, signals for silence, and the roar dwindles to a murmur, a rustle of humanity. Satisfied with the relative quiet,  Marius shouts, “Caesar! I! Am! Your! Subject!”

Odysseus startles, his eyes go wide. he leaps to his feat, up onto his marble seat, waves his arms and shouts, “Fealty! It’s fealty to Caesar! The hero gives fealty to Caesar!”

The mob cheers for their Caesar, “Spasianhhh…!  Spasianhhh! “Spasianhhh…! Marius is surrounded by a spontaneous honor guard of cheering Praetorians. Inspired, Arius suddenly vaults the wall, hits the sand in a roll, and rises with the cingulum held high overhead.”

Vespasian gapes, “What the hell’s he doing?” He starts to stand.

Titus grabs his shoulder, “Wait…”

 Below, on the sand, Arius turns slowly, lets the sunlight glitter off the medallions and awards on the cingulum, displays it to the mob. He walks to Marius. He makes a drama of presenting the cingulum with solemnity and honor. Marius takes the belt and stands to attention. Arius salutes his soldier, turns and makes a grand gesture of Greek theater, “introducing” the Emperor. Vespasian, in a fog, automatically rises to his feet. Arius reaches to Marius and removes the mask. Marius is relieved, believes he’s made exactly the right calculation, understands the politics of it, and makes a low bow to the emperor. But he’s still not certain he’ll survive. A glance at Arius tells him he will, the undisguised pride and gleam in the officer’s eyes, and now he notices the pure fanaticism of the Guard itself, rallying to him. They sweep him up onto a shield and carry him over their heads, sing a soldier’s song of war and the holy sacrament of death.

Inspired, Marius salutes Vespasian and makes the formal sign that says, “The Emperor is god!” The mob does not disappoint, and roars its approval, the reverberation breaks from the stone ellipse of the amphitheater and rolls across the seven hills of Rome, a resonance out of mythology. In the Imperial box, Titus grabs Vespasian by the shoulders and says in his ear, “He’s ours! We’ve won! We’ve won!”

Vespasian's mind clears. Spontaneously, he grins for the cheering mob, a campaign grin he’s famous for, practiced, and they love it. He holds up a glittering quarter ounce aureusi. He tosses the coin onto the shield, at Marius feet.

“Unus!”  the mob counts in play.

Vespasian is elated—I’m back! 

He holds up another aureusi and displays it around broadly, scattering sunlight. He flips the sparkling coin onto the shield, and laughs with the exultant mob.

“Duos!”

Stimulated, Vespasian tosses the entire purse of 47 remaining aureusi.   “Spasianhhh…! He signals for an entire box of coins to be tossed into the Praetoriani, and his reputation is cemented. “Spasianhhh…!

No one notices Catacus the dwarf walk the sand with hundreds of other workers also here today with their own gladiator-masters. He bends forward, and picks up the wide-brimmed bronze helmet of Nemesis, Goddess of Revenge. Blood pours down his wrists. He stares into the heavy grillwork at the severed head and dead, wide-eyed face of his own master, Decimus, Marius' father, neither of whom recognized each other behind their masks.

Several other masters from the dugout walk up to Cat. One says, “Who was it? Which master?”

Cat says, “I don’t know. No one.”

“Oh. Want to sell me that helmet?”

“Sure.”

But, far away, out beyond the cosmic deep—beyond the stars, near the boundary of the universe itself, where all laws of physics cease—in the Black Moon, the Goddess watches her Design spread itself before her. The boiling blood of Hercules that curses Marius has claimed another of its prophesied victims----the same as Hercules, who murdered his entire family. She counts sparrows that fall to the ground, and hairs on the heads of humankind, but she places no value on either—only what affects her Prophecy. Marius cannot escape what she has destined him for, or he loses his soul.

 

 

 

BACK TO BEGINNING