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The Gladiator

By Nathan D. Maki

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Prologue: Betrayal

The sun was hot overhead, baking the sands of the Coliseum. Antonius Maximus could feel the heat beat through his sandals. Nearby, flies already buzzed around the freshly-killed lion carcasses. In the stands surrounding him, fifty thousand Romans were buzzing as well, eagerly discussing, betting on, and awaiting the blood sport to come. He could smell the lions’ blood. It was on the sand, on his sword, on his armor, testifying to the awful death struggle that had already played out this day. The blood felt slippery on his sword hilt, and he reached down, taking a handful of gritty sand and letting it trail through his fingers.
From the corner of his eye, he saw figures disappearing through an open gate into the bowels of the arena and he felt a moment of relief. At least his family was safe.
Lord, keep them safe. He fired off a prayer toward heaven.
His father, his sister, and Sabina; the thought of the girl he loved fighting lions alongside him made his heart hurt, and he shook his head to clear it.
Focus, Antonius, he thought to himself. No time for distractions now.
Antonius narrowed his vision until all he saw was his opponent, circling him slowly. Piercing brown eyes he knew so well peered at him over the iron rim of a legionnaire’s shield. Twin scars he knew were dealt by a trident ran parallel across cheek and forehead, showing only slightly under the gleaming helmet with its crimson officer’s crest: a helmet just like his own. The hand he had so often clasped in friendship now held a glittering sword, and Antonius was aware enough to appreciate the irony of the situation.
His best friend was about to kill him.
One of them had to die here, and Antonius knew he could not kill his friend. Despite the sting of betrayal, it was not in his heart to kill the man who had saved his life so many times. All his anger, all his hatred, all the longing for revenge that had so shaped his life and fueled his passion to fight had gone. He couldn’t kill this man.
With that thought, Antonius’ sword arm dropped almost imperceptibly, and his opponent seized the opportunity and stepped in, sword slipping forward for the kill stroke. Instinctively, Antonius spun away, pivoting on his right foot and letting the blade slip by him. Thrusting forward his shield with his left hand, he knocked his opponent’s sword arm further out of line, leaving his center open. Without thinking, he thrust hard under the over-extended arm for the exposed midsection, but his sword met the other’s shield and was knocked aside.
The crowd was on its feet, roaring, at the near miss on both sides.
Instead of disappointment that his thrust hadn’t landed, Antonius felt a surge of relief that it had missed. He shook his head, mentally warning himself to curb the killer instinct that had been drilled and beaten into him.
Not that it would matter if I really tried, he thought with a streak of wry humor. He’s always been the better swordsman.
Both fighters sprang back, circled for position, and then slammed together again. Shield on shield, sword on sword, they clinched for a long moment. To the crowd in the stands it looked as though they were simply standing face to face, each staring the other down. In reality though, every muscle was straining, feet set, legs and arms pressing, teeth bared and grimacing, each struggling to over-balance the other and attain that moment of superiority that would end this contest of blood.
Slowly, inch by inch, Antonius fell back, sandals skidding furrows in the sand, still fighting fiercely even as he gave way before his opponent’s superior strength. With a final heave, the scarred warrior sent him stumbling back, his heels pounding frantically at the sand as he fought to regain his balance against the backward momentum. His opponent went with him, pressing his advantage, keeping him off balance as his sword slammed into Antonius’ shield over and over again.
A final blow sent Antonius’ shield spinning away, and he tumbled backward to the sand. Desperately he fought his way to his feet, dancing lightly now, staying away from his better-armed foe. For a handful of long-drawn minutes they circled on the sands, blades flickering in and out, clashing with sparks. The crowds roared their encouragement at the contestants, shouting in delight as blood and sweat ran down, screaming and chanting impatiently for the kill.
And then, the loudest shout of all issued from fifty thousand throats as Antonius’ sword was knocked aside, a glinting sword thrust in and came out bloody, and he fell to the sands.
Throwing aside his battered shield and stepping forward, his opponent placed his sword at Antonius’ throat, and then lifted his eyes to the Emperor’s booth for the life-or-death verdict.
The Emperor’s fist rose, his thumb held sideways. After the barest moment of hesitation, playing to the crowd, he turned thumbs down. Without hesitation, the scarred fighter swept his sword across his fallen enemy’s neck. It came away trailing red. He knelt for a moment, left hand at Antonius’ throat, and blood flowed through his fingers. Then rising, he punched his sword at the sky and the crowd erupted.
With all eyes on the victor, no one noticed the twitch of Antonius’ eyelids or the fading flutter in his blood-soaked throat. From the sidelines, a grey-bearded physician ran forward. He felt for a pulse, leaned down his cheek to check for breath, then motioned to the grizzled centurion whose squad of soldiers waited with long hooked poles to drag the body away. The doctor caught the victor’s eye and gave a barely perceptible nod, received a slight twitch of a smile in return.
And the victorious fighter whipped the crowd into a frenzy, sword held high in the blazing sun.

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