Bookworm Gladiator

Fish guts and barbarian blood. Brutus felt like a Prophet of Sybil as he envisioned the Forum square bathed in crimson come morning, the sunlight falling on dead Bedouins and market stalls flipped over with fish strewn about. He knew it would happen, and he would manifest it. A theatre of his own, to adorn and display for the masses, and they would finally see themselves reflected in the carnage, and what Brutus had in store for those who dared defy the word of law.

Atticus stepped up beside him and a seed of annoyance grew some more deep in Brutus’ chest. “The nobles are out?” Brutus asked him. The greying soldier, with deep set eyes that observed much yet showed little, matched Brutus’ glare with his own indifference.

“Yes, sir,” he replied in his calm voice.

Brutus had ordered half his century to beeline for the Forum and empty it of any civilians. Unfortunately, the civilians had been made up of mostly nobles and housewives taking the rare opportunity to enjoy the city center while the commoners were busy with the gladiator games. The square had been filled with austere looking men in spotless togas drinking wine in front of the senate house, and groups of girls in colorful chitons and with long, precious nails passing through to reach the seamstress quarters. Some servants had bustled about, buying as much fish as they could for their master’s household.

It was fish season, apparently. Caravans from the south had entered the city just hours before sunset last night, and set up their meats in the square this morning. Fish was rare in Palmyra, and the only grocery list it was a part of belonged to noble households.

Brutus wrinkled his nose at the funny smell. At first, he’d been annoyed, but he figured the stench would only add to his masterpiece. This is freedom, Brutus thought. Freedom from bureaucracy, freedom from Cato and his constant allegiance to local politics. Brutus could finally act without having to certify his intentions through the city’s codes and policies.

“The merchants want some time to wrap up their stalls,” Atticus said, and it took a moment for Brutus to grasp what he meant.

“They can choke on their fish bones once we’re done,” Brutus said, and spared a glance at the gathered civilian crowd behind his line of scutum shields. His men didn’t budge from their spot but it was clear the civilians would be an issue come the battle. “Why do I have to do everything myself?” Brutus snarled as he turned and pushed past his officer.

His men straightened as he approached, perhaps noticing his face twisted in anger. He shoved his way past them as well, lifted his hammer from his belt as he marched towards the merchants.

Brutus closed the last few feet in a dash and kicked the shins of the closest man, a Persian looking fisherman in purple robes, who yelped and hopped back at the sudden attack. “Mitte! Mitte!” he yelled.

It was probably the only Latin the man spoke. “Mitte my foot up your ass, how about that?” Brutus replied in the local tongue. They were ruining his moment, and it took all his will not to crack the idiot’s skull open right here and now. “If you goats don’t clear this square, I swear to Baal, I will kill you.”

Whether it was his existing reputation or this sudden attack, the crowd scattered quicker than fish in a disturbed pond. Brutus didn’t waste any more time; the Bedouin looters could be upon them any moment. “March!” he yelled back to his men, “twenty paces! Atticus, take the tail.”

His tail-leader rushed to the back, his eyes flicking to Brutus’ drawn hammer. “What is it?” Brutus said, and got in the man’s face. Atticus didn’t talk much, but Brutus had served long enough with the man to recognize his look of disappointment. “You have something to say, soldier?”

Atticus, unlike his other men, didn’t back down from Brutus. He wasn’t openly subordinate, but his silence had somehow become just as mutinous. “You itching to say something, Attay?”

Atticus was one of the few remaining men in Palmyra that Brutus knew from his previous life in Corbulo’s legion. While Brutus had risen to Centurion, Atticus had reached the status of Optio and tail-leader in the same cohort. They’d led their men in different ways and attitude, but Brutus had more than welcomed Atticus into the Palmyran militia once he’d applied. After that, well, Brutus had grown to resent his presence. The man was too calm and reserved for his taste, and had been gaining more favor with Cato in recent months.

“How do you know the looters are headed this way?” he asked.

“You think about your own post, soldier,” Brutus replied.

“I need to protect our flank,” Atticus said, then added a noticeable moment later, “sir.”

Brutus felt his skin burn, even though the sun had set and the stone square cooled under their feet. Atticus had a way of asking supposedly innocent questions, yet it was clear what he was suggesting. Brutus felt eerily seen by him. Had he eavesdropped the orders Brutus had given to Precum when he’d split his force in half?

He'd sent fifty men under Precum to chase and herd the looters from the northern slums and funnel them into the city center. He couldn’t remember if Atticus had been nearby to overhear, but Brutus had effectively manufactured his own little battle by controlling the chaos and creating a hammer and anvil scenario.

Aggression had awarded Brutus the status of Centurion, and he’d always factored in his experience at the front lines to how he thought about smaller skirmishes. And this had been the perfect, soon to be successful, experiment. How else would Atticus have handled it?

“Precum is tailing the looters here, we will crush them on both sides,” Brutus said. He patted Atticus’ shoulder, “don’t you worry your little heart, soldier.”

“They were chasing the commoners the last we saw, around the northern wall,” Atticus replied, “there might be civilians amongst the crowd.”

“And what would you have done,” Brutus asked. He kept his voice low and calm, so as not to appear that they were arguing. “What strategy would you have employed, Optio?”

“With all due respect, sir. We have enough men to arrest the looters individually.”

“I’ll let you take care of the paperwork, then,” Brutus replied, “you can separate the looter from the innocent once they’re dead, and send your complaints to Cato’s grave. Now get to your post.”

Atticus nodded, as emotionless as he’d ever been, as if Brutus had not just slung an insult at him but a simple order. He began his own barking at the line of men, getting them to spread out more, at least a few feet between each other.

The man had experience and skill at what he did, Brutus couldn’t deny that. He was valuable to a fault. Brutus put the mutinous dog out of his mind and marched around his men to survey his battle ground.

The dimming light was covering the square in shadows, and it would soon be pitch dark as the servants hadn’t got the chance to light the torches around the clustered buildings. He noted the only routes to escape; a few alley ways coming in from the south western gate, which Brutus had blocked with loaded carts, and the wide Temple Road that led to the Temple of Baal, which his soldiers stood in front of. Precum would be herding the enemy from the northern alley connections, or hopefully the wide Temple Road.

Precum, the young lad that Brutus had raised to Captain, reminded him of his own youth. Brutus had also been an eager recruit, always ready for a scuffle. Although the lad had shown an unhealthy obsession with accosting and arresting anyone that looked at him wrong. Hopefully that translated to a swift jab in the spine tonight as he chased the looters down.

Less meat for the grinder, Brutus thought. He scratched his beard with the tip of his hammer. His hair was surprisingly firm, caked in blood, sweat and mud from the day. He would welcome the bath tonight, and hoped Niobe would have the sense to prepare it before he arrived. His wife had been sent home with a footman, and Brutus felt better knowing she was safe.

There were faint shouts coming from the Temple Road entrance in the north, fifty paces in front of his militiamen who waited with shields up and blades at the ready. With market stalls around them and other material used as blockade, Brutus hoped the hammer and anvil strategy would come to fruition. He could feel the hair on his arm rise and prickle as the noises became louder and louder. Curses and screams of both men and women filled the night, strong bellows against abrupt shrieks, and shadows flitted into the square one after another.

The silhouettes seemed to be holding weapons, or other tools, which they waved in the militia’s direction. Some of them paused when they saw the line of militia and tried to turn back but their comrades forced them forward.

Clattering of blade and shield and strong footsteps of geared men sounded next, and Brutus saw torches carried by a few among them. They shouted at the looters in front of them and prodded them into the square. The scutum shields made for a poor shield-wall, but Brutus had trained them well. They used the brass bosses at the center of their shield to tackle and shove any of the savages that dared to challenge them and try to escape.

More than two dozen Bedouin looters, or perhaps more, had funneled into the dark market square, flanked on both sides by Brutus’ century.

Brutus thought he’d have to inch forward, and kill them one by one, but they surprised him. The savages charged violently, shrieking in their unrecognizable tongues, and bashed into Brutus’ line. “Brace!” Atticus yelled from the back just a moment before the bodies met their shields.

As much as Brutus hated the officer, the voice was a familiar part of Brutus’ most beloved moments of his life. The carnage.

Brutus stepped forward before anyone else. That was his way of giving orders, and as a Centurian at the front line, it had served him well. His hammer came down on the poor fool that had attempted to push past Brutus a moment before.

The skull gave way with a delightful crunch. Brutus parried a jab from some type of javelin or spear from his companion, and hopped forward to close the distance. The second man fell with a groan as Brutus’ hammer caved in his chest.

Brutus’ men were still hesitant, but it was expected. Only one out of ten men ever charge in battle, especially at night. The front line was meant to push and duel and replace with their rear-guard at a moment’s notice when tired. A constant rotation that created a tug of war between battling legions. But in a small skirmish like this, they would have to charge sooner or later. “Fight you cowards!” Brutus snarled.

Precum’s line was doing the same, stepping forward and shoving the Bedouins but doing little else to get a kill. “Hundred denarii for every savage head!” Brutus cried, his bellow echoing across the square and over the foreign pleas of their victims.

The promise of gold finally got his men going. A handful across his line stepped forward and begun stabbing viciously into the sea of bodies. It was clumsy, and it was pathetic. But Brutus figured that was the best he could expect from a town militia with little battle experience. More for me then, Brutus decided.

His arm ached even as he extinguished the life of another lightly armored savage. He couldn’t remember the last time his muscles had been pushed to the limit. Starting the day with the fight against Septimus, and now carving his way through a wave of men in darkness. It was—

A club smacked Brutus in the side of his head. He reeled with a sharp ringing in his ear, and the shadows in front of him blurred into nothingness. In a panic, he flailed his hammer wildly, and felt it thump into a body. Half-blind, he followed his victim to the ground and crushed the man’s face to a pulp.

When he rose, time ceased to exist. He was a torrent of anger and pain and rage, cutting through the thrashing limbs and shrieking faces of turban-clad Bedouins as they rushed at him. His chain-mail blocked what his round-shield could not. His helmet now discarded, Brutus took a few more blows to the head, but luckily nothing sharp.

He didn’t stop his flailing until he smacked into a line of shields. He expected it to be the other end of the square, the men under Precum’s lead. But as his sight adjusted, he realized it was his own group. Somehow, he’d circled around the bloody square and come right back. A few other enraged men still rushed around the square, finishing off the last of the dying Bedouins.

One of the savages had climbed on top of the auction block where slaves were sold, and had been flinging stones or something until a militiaman finally dragged him down screaming and ended his life. He sounded young, but Brutus couldn’t be bothered to check any of the bodies just yet.

Brutus’ lungs were on fire, and his body threatened to collapse if he let it, but he pushed past the pain and stood as straight as he could manage. “Finish them…all. Hundred… denarii, remember!” he gasped.

Two of his men had followed a looter into the fountain, and were busy cutting him into a hundred pieces from the looks of it. Even in the darkness, he could feel the water changing color. Prophet of Sybil, Brutus thought. “It’s written,” he whispered. “It’s written in the scrolls.”

Brutus noticed a figure with a torch standing behind what was left of the militia line. The light flickered across the man’s face. It was Atticus.

The officer’s eyes were looking straight at Brutus, and he was suddenly aware of his haggard state, drenched in blood and bile. Brutus wanted to yell at Atticus, challenge him once more, see what mutinous thoughts he had for him now. But the man unbuckled his belt, let his sword and equipment fall to the ground. Then he turned and walked out of the square.

“Atticus, you coward,” Brutus snarled, “come back and face me, you treacherous dog!”

The lone torch bobbed and flickered down Temple Road as Atticus walked off, his figure blurring into the night and with him the light followed until it too vanished around the corner.