Bookworm Gladiator

There wasn't much that made Brutus angry. Despite the endless politicking in his day to day; the constant complaints about his strict methods; or even his wife's soggy beans. He considered it all a hazard of choosing to settle down in a town of savages and barbarians. Not so different than dealing with the muddy streets of Palmyra that were always on the cusp of drying, but just slightly, and with a layer of dust on top.

But watching chaos reign around him—from the Bedouins who were rioting, to the Persian cataphracts that were barreling down the arena towards the royal podium—it all cut him deep, and woke an anger in him that he hadn't felt bubbling for years. All the triumph of the day and glory long forgotten, Brutus raged at the town militia to re-group at his position. "To me, you dogs!" he snarled. The disrespect, he thought. The fucking disrespect of these savages.

Brutus quickly captured the chaotic scene around him, the way he'd done many times in battle. At first, it was difficult; almost like stretching a muscle he hadn't used in quite a while. He ignored the Bedouins, they were just looting the commoners, and that could wait. Baba Haza­—now weaponless—limped across the arena towards the cavalry, who were charging at full gallop. Need to intercept them before they get to the nobles.

Brutus led the confused militia at full sprint towards the royal podium, where the lords and ladies of Palmyra were stepping on each other trying to escape. A line of Temple spearmen wrestled their way through the crowd to get to Atia.

"Primus Precum!" Brutus called the militia captain; a young man with a shining bronze helmet and a leaf-spear at hand. He saluted Brutus sharply, "Sir."

"Single-rank, in front of the podium. Now!"

Well-trained and equipped, the century followed Precum’s lead. They assembled themselves across the length of the podium, arm’s length apart and pila raised above their heads in anticipation. The nobles had a line of escape to the northern gate of Palmyra that had not yet been overrun by angry Bedouins.

Brutus grabbed the century’s tail-leader, a middle-aged man called Atticus. “Soldier, I need you to take a couple men to the northern gate. Stem the flow, let the nobles in first, then the citizens and then the freeborn and laborers. Understand?”

Atticus nodded.

“Kill any Bedouins or slaves that come in running.”

This made the man pause. He stared at Brutus, no doubt hoping for the faint chance that the Lictor would clarify that by kill, he didn’t really mean kill. Brutus didn’t have time for this indecisiveness. “If you can’t do it-

“I’ll go to the gate,” Atticus cut in before Brutus could change his mind, and with a quick salute, sprinted off south with one other footman. He had a strong gait, resolute, with a well-practiced marching motion for his pilum and scutum shield. He was as old as Brutus, and yet, had spent his entire life being commanded around and marching like any other soldier. But every century and legion needed these kinds of men. Wiser, tougher and prone to taking orders rather than thinking on their own. While they lacked the stamina and aggression of young men in the first ranks, they made effective tail-leaders that could reinforce morale and discipline.

Atticus, however, had shown a hint of hesitancy. Brutus wasn’t a man that took no for an answer, and this indecisiveness, even for a split-second, was too close to disobedience. Nothing to do about it right now, Brutus thought, and turned his attention back to the Parthian scum.

The armored cavalry had met up with Baba Haza and were now escorting him to their camp while a few stayed behind, edging ever closer to the line of spearmen. Were they trying to intimidate? Hah!

“Ad fulcum!” Brutus snarled as he joined his men. Precum echoed his order and with resounding war-cry, the single rank collapsed into a phalanx formation, except the third rank raised their pila up over their heads again, prepared to pepper any horseman that dared come close.

The cataphract armor could protect the rider and horse in most places, but a good pilum to the face would make any man question their life choices. And Brutus had nothing but good faith in his men’s accuracy.

The senate had first laughed at Brutus for requesting the funds and training to make the town militia into a proper Roman century with phalanx capabilities. If it wasn’t for the support of Cato the city master, his brother Cataline, and their Latin clansmen in the Senate, Brutus wouldn’t be leading such an exceptional group of well-trained men. Almost all either of Greek and Roman blood, and many of them in Brutus’ slave-hunting Vigil group, the militiamen were reminiscent of Brutus’ old Legion Ferrata; one of the prime legions that had conquered Armenia under Corbulo. Brutus had led their slave-train himself before deciding to retire at Emesa, and then finally making his way to Palmyra.

Seeing the Ferrate symbols etched into Precum’s shining helmet gave Brutus a renewed fervor to smash some skulls. “Form!” Brutus called to his third rank and heard the familiar shuffle of raised pila.

The Parthian cataphracts immediately pulled on their reins, just out of range of the Brutus' men. Their warhorses stomped their feet in frustration and the riders were busy trying to control them for a moment. That was the problem with using shock cavalry and relying on stallions rather than mares in the field. They were harder to control and to pull back from a charge. In battle, Brutus would have taken this chance to unleash his first rank on the distracted riders, and let his third rank close the distance.

But like a bull tied down by his horns, Brutus had to grit his teeth and wait. He was no general and this was no battle. He still had to answer to the city master and the Persians were also still citizens of Palmyra. This skirmish would be brought in front of the Senate and Brutus risked losing political favor. Law and order, Brutus reminded himself. He did this for control, not to satiate his bloodthirst.

Brutus took a sniff of his war-hammer, still covered in Septimus' dried blood. A sharp, irony scent filled his nostrils and he breathed it in deep.

The Persians need to be the aggressors here, Brutus decided. "Oi, Shapur!" Brutus called to the cavalry captain. He recognized the pudgy face and curly black beard. The Persian horseman was one of the few that was just as capable on foot as on horseback. Wearing shiny lamellar with mace and shield, he was the first to get his warhorse under control and come back into pilum range. Brutus didn't give the order, not yet. "You got your man, what else do you want?"

Shapur's war-horse snorted, perhaps sharing its rider's frustration. "Salve, Brutus." he replied, and his eye scanned the royal podium’s benches behind the militia. Brutus slipped out of the first rank, and spun his hammer casually, flexing his arms and shoulders.

"Is that a new stud?" Brutus asked, "I think I like you better on mares."

Shapur smiled and inched his horse closer, eyes still flicking to the benches. Brutus followed his gaze to the podium, now almost empty. The nobles had bee-lined to the north gate and were almost across the empty fields. If the Persians wanted, they could just as easily maneuver around the militia and run the nobles down. But they didn't. What game is Tiridates playing? Brutus wondered.

"Looking for something?" Brutus asked the cavalry captain. In another lifetime, they could have been friends. Brutus had patrolled with Shapur once, and their wives had even danced together at a wedding some time ago. But even if they had been regular drinking friends, Brutus would not hesitate crushing the man's face into flat-bread. It was Brutus' duty, after all.

And Shapur seemed to understand that, as he kept his distance. The Persian raised his fist to his comrades and they began to retreat, tailing the company that was already retreating with Haza. Brutus could feel the men around him shuffle and some relax their shoulders, no doubt relieved that they weren’t going to take the brunt of a cavalry charge today. Of course, they had no idea. None of them were battle-hardened. Except maybe Atticus, who had been an Optio in Corbulo’s legions.

It would be devastating, sure, but Brutus could use some violence after the today’s events. He’d won over Septimius but it had been a sordid affair that left Brutus sore all over. He could use some broken skulls to lift his spirits. And besides, the Persians were guilty of law-breaking.

“That all, Shapur?” Brutus cried to the horseman. He was more than happy to pick a fight with the horseman. What was his station in life again? Brutus recalled that he called himself “spahbed” and a “royal guard”. Hah!

Shapur wasn’t an azadan like Tiridates. He didn’t belong to a Persian noble family. They were just landowners and lackeys of a previous regime before Roman influence. Yes, Brutus thought, his skull would do nicely.

But before Brutus could take another step forward, he heard a commotion behind him. Flamma, the Syrian gladiator and whore-boy, was shoving his way through the militia century. Blood drenched and carrying Baba Haza’s two-hander, he hurled slurs towards Shapur and his people.

“Assassins!” Flamma cried angrily, “Cowardly assassins!”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Brutus said, and blocked his way. Flamma didn’t slow his pace and so Brutus used his hammer to shove the gladiator back. “Back off, slut.”

“What?” Flamma snapped, confused for a bit at the random insult. “Get out of my way.” He tried to circumvent Brutus but his wide shoulders were enough to cut him off again.

Brutus shoved the man back as hard as he could, but the gladiator somehow kept his balance, his feet bouncing to a fighting stance before Brutus could blink.

“Get out of my way,” Flamma said, his voice lower and taking a menacing tone.

Brutus judged the man for a moment. He wasn’t as muscular or stocky as Brutus, but a little taller with a strong frame nonetheless. He held the two-hander with both hands but it was swift and he pointed it at Brutus’ face without too much effort. Flamma the Saved, they called him. An arena champion from Syria.

“Run back to your Priestess, Flamma,” Brutus replied. “She would not want you starting a war with the Persians in her name.”

“They attacked her, you fool!”

“The Persian gladiator attacked her, to be specific. I’m sure the Senate, along with Tiridates, will see a difference. And I am here to uphold their law,” Brutus said, lifting his hammer towards the Syrian to make his intentions clear.

Flamma bit his lip in frustration, looking over Brutus’ shoulder to the retreating cavalry. There really was no point in him chasing them, and Brutus hoped he realized that. Brutus couldn’t let another man outshine him in front of his own men.

“The Sky God watches, secutor,” Brutus said, “turn back now.”

Brutus had never seen Flamma fight, but he had seen graffiti of him in Emesa. He wore the armor of a secutor his fights; a traditional gladiator costume that made good use of sword and shield with proper face protection. Brutus felt a centurion’s gear was far superior, and if they ever met in the arena, then he would have a chance to prove it to the masses. People had cheered so long for these barbarians in fancy costumes and colorful plumes, they’d forgotten what real warriors looked like.

Flamma lowered Haza’s sword and, perhaps coming to realize whose sword he was holding, chucked it way. Brutus signaled for Precum to fetch it immediately.

“Is the bitch dead, then?” Brutus asked Flamma as he turned away.

“What? Who?”

“Atia, did the Persian really get to her?”

“Fuck off,” Flamma snarled and marched off.

Brutus had half a mind to have him arrested for interfering with the law, but that would just be more paperwork, after all.

***

Brutus sent the militia running with the populace to take control of the gates from Atticus, and get a grip on where the Bedouin looters would be heading. A sortie had detached from the common crowd and were maneuvering around the north-east section of the city where the walls had decayed and been torn down for building material. The slums, the “tent city”, was located in the northern part of Palmyra, and would make for a perfect entry point for the rascals.

“Sir,” Precum, the ever-eager captain, saluted. “The bodies?” he asked.

Once the Persian cavalry had retreated and were busy with dismantling their camp, Brutus’ century and town militia had turned their attention to the royal podium. The benches were a mess, with strewn drinks, personal belongings and jewelry dropped in the midst of the stampede.

What’s more, Brutus’ men had found several bodies wedged in between the wooden seats. These unfortunate souls had fallen in the stampede and had been crushed by their own fellow noblemen. The militia had collected their ruined bodies and lain them together, face up.

A few he recognized, but only faintly. Brutus duties as lictor only went as far as protecting the city master Cato, and so he’d attended many a dinner parties. But he could never hold a stable conversation with any of the politicians and aristocrats. They were all weak men with corrupt desires. Almost everyone was compromised.

Brutus paused, coming to stare at a very familiar face. The nose had been crushed, pushed up into the brow. Some teeth in the front were missing. The man’s eyes were stretched wide in pure terror; an expression that would now be permanent.

“Is that…” Precum said, standing his spear next to the body and leaning in.

“Now that is a turn of events,” Brutus said gruffly. He searched his thoughts for any sort of emotion at seeing his master lying dead. Cato the city master, a public servant, murdered by the feet of his own citizens and fellow socialites. Maybe at some point—perhaps later in the day—Brutus would find some humor in the ridiculous fate of this poor, old cunt.

But right now, it was a shameful sight. This barbaric city, Brutus thought. Would something like this have happened in Rome? Would a Roman public servant be murdered so pathetically by his own fellow senators?

Traitorous whores. Brutus spat to his side. “Shameful sight, isn’t it Precum?”

“It is, sir.”

“What happens now?” Brutus thought out loud.

“We need to arrest someone, sir.”

Brutus sighed, and stared out towards the decaying walls of Palmyra. He noticed a figure running towards them; a Priestess wearing the robes of Bel-Shamin, the Sky God. Her feet clattered with the sound of colorful bangles and her frizzy hair bounced wildly as she rushed towards him.

“Ah shit,” Brutus said. “She’s relentless.”

“Should I arrest her, sir?” Precum asked.

“No,” Brutus growled, “that’s my wife, you goat.”

Dripping with sweat, and with make-up running down her flushed cheeks, Niobe sprinted the last few yards and threw herself on Brutus. He caught a strong whiff of pine and sweat in her hair. He took it in despite his annoyance.

“Oh, husband!” she cried. “I knew I shouldn’t have left!”

Niobe, along with her other Temple dancers, were a part of the opening ceremonies in every bracket-day of the tournament. Brutus didn’t like her around when he was fighting though, and sent her packing in the morning back to Palmyra. She could be… suffocating.

“I knew it!” she slammed her fist on his bruised chest, causing him to flinch. “Oh! Are you hurt?” She tried to pry away his leather vest and expose his hairy chest. He gently pulled away her hand from his neck, and held her back.

“I’m fine, Niobe,” Brutus said, “Just dealing with a mess right now. City matters, you wouldn’t understand.”

It was a little difficult maintaining his usual bravado in front of his men when his wife doted on him so. It left a bad taste in his mouth, and yet, he hesitated in rejecting her.

“When I saw the mothers, clutching their babes to their chest,” Niobe continued, “I prayed to the Lord, Brutus. I prayed to Him that you were alright.”

“Yes, thank you—

“And you are!” she finished. Brutus caught Precum still lurking behind, watching them.

“Move it, Captain,” Brutus barked. “Get the bodies sorted.” Then he turned to Niobe, who was busy fishing something out of her satchel. Before she even took the bundle out, Brutus knew what it was.

“Look, Niobe, I don’t have time for this,” he began, but his wife stuffed the bundle in his hands.

“You have to eat these nuts and raisins,” she said, “they will give you strength and… Oh Lord! Is that Master Cato?”

Brutus followed her stricken eyes to the pile of noblemen corpses. His militia had done a poor job so far in covering their faces. Niobe jumped back into his arms, and he felt her shiver. Slowly, he began stroking her hair.

“Don’t you worry, my dear,” Brutus said, “his death means nothing.”

If anything, this should give Brutus more cause and power to do as he willed. Several ideas began forming in his mind. No, not just ideas, Brutus thought. Actual paths to power.

With Cato dead, and no city master in office, Brutus didn’t have to run his intentions through anyone. No paperwork, no danger of political veto or bureaucratic ponces getting in his way. He could simply… act.

Cato had allowed Brutus control over the town militia, and now with him gone, he was its sole leader. This would last for a time, until the Senate could appoint a new city master. But until then, and especially today, Brutus had the largest military force in Palmyra under his command. He could feel the hair on his arms prickle. The tiredness he’d been feeling ever since his arena fight suddenly vanished as waves of new energy washed through him once again.

Brutus looked over the deserted camps around the open fields. Strewn garbage, broken benches and empty stalls littered the arena field all around him. The Persian camp had been dismantled and the procession, no doubt carrying both Tiridates and Haza, proceeded at a leisurely pace towards the city. So arrogant, Brutus thought. Why was everyone so arrogant?

The Bedouin sortie had rounded the city walls and disappeared into the oasis that curved along northern Palmyra. With no one to stop them, they would begin pillaging the slums and slowly make their way down to the public squares and the noble quarters and temples. Brutus had to act quick and savagely.

“Precum!” Brutus called his man, and he felt Niobe jump at his sudden outburst. “Forget the dead,” he snarled, “form the men in two ranks, we’re marching to the northern gate.”

“Yes, sir!”

With enough speed, Brutus could reach the gate before the Persians and lock it down. Just to fuck with them. And the Bedouins could pillage the slums all they wanted, but Brutus would ambush them at the Forum before they slipped into the heart of the city. It was the easiest pathway down to the colonnade and the richer neighborhoods. He could even split his force and cut off their retreat. Looters were often a chaotic bunch with no disciplined leadership. Brutus could easily force them to flee in different directions; each Bedouin worried about his own self. Then he would hunt them down one by one.

To think, if Cato were alive, Brutus would be duty bound to escort the politician back to his estate, along with the other nobles. He’d be forced to play defensive while Arabs and Persians ran amok in the streets. No, things were much simpler this way. Jupiter had done him a solid with Cato’s death. “All praise to you, father,” Brutus cried to the heavens.

“What will you—” Niobe began.

“And you, my dear wife,” Brutus said happily, “you’re coming with me.” He wrapped his fingers around Niobe’s slim waist and threw her over his shoulder. “Oh!” she cried at first, but didn’t really resist.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To take back our city.”