Empire Of The Undead (4 page)

To the north, he thought of the sparkling sea. It invited escape, but he knew better than to try again. No doubt Lepidus had men watching him. Instead, he shoveled until the calluses on his hands had their own calluses. It wasn’t so bad, as long as he didn’t dilute his wine too much in the morning. Lately, he was scarcely adding water at all.

There were good moments. He liked the food; a spicy mix of lentils and grains called kushari. At night, he enjoyed staring at the dung-filled fire, watching the shapes of yellow and red dancing in the cold desert air. His shovel was of excellent quality, the same kind that the Legions used to entrench themselves while on campaign. It was made all of iron, and came up to his waist. He named it efossion, his little digging friend, and the old man had come out to help today. He was hardworking and silent—the perfect companion.

The tall warrior stopped and wiped the sweat from his eyes. It was early morning still, but already the air was warming. He looked critically at his trench. It wasn’t very deep. “Good enough,” he muttered.

“No, it’s not,” said a voice from behind him. Amasis stood there. The overseer wasn’t a bad man, but he clearly enjoyed lording power over a bigger, stronger man. “It’s not big enough to hold rat piss. It’s useless.”

The old man had come up beside Iullianus. His leathery face broke into a wide smile and his toothless mouth opened. “Useless,” he echoed. “Useless.”  Iullianus was surprised. The old man spoke no tongue Iullianus knew, not even Latin. He didn’t even have a name, as far as anyone knew.

“I took you on because I owed Lucius a favor,” Amasis said. “But we need workers, not warriors.” 

Iullianus said nothing. Let this little man exult in his power. He dug into the dry earth with his spade and dug deeper. The old man joined him.

A shout at the gates sounded, and Amasis left. There were newly arrived visitors. Iullianus watched with interest as the doors opened and a team of hunters returned. They were hard men, survivors. Not disciplined enough to be soldiers, they could nonetheless march for several days and survive with no rations other than what they could hunt or scavenge.

Iullianus had been surprised at the existence of the hunting parties. But no one, apart from perhaps the distant Indian Kings, had discovered how to get the massive beasts to mate. The industry, such as it was, consisted of three teams. The first were the hunters who actually found and captured young elephants. Another group, smaller, was led by Amasis. They did the actual training of the animals. The third group was made of wives and the young children of the first two. They created the howdahs, turrets they placed on the beasts for archers to use in combat. Iullianus and the old man were not part of any of the groups. They merely dug piss trenches and shoveled the shit.

There were close to a dozen hunters, and they were leading six young elephants. The men were bandaged, scrawny, and filthy. The animals were the smaller kind, the ones found in the northern part of Africa. They were plenty big though. The men had metal spikes and hammers, of the kind used to keep the animals under control until they were tamed.

The leader of the hunters looked to be from Parthia. His skin was dark olive, and he had thick dark hair, bushy eyebrows, and a hooked nose. He was handsome, in a rugged Parthian kind of way.

Amasis met them and they spoke for long moments. Iullianus watched the new elephants for a moment, wondering if they would get along with the elephants already here. The great animals seemed to be almost like people—elephants did not always like one another. Two of the handlers appeared and led the elephants deeper into the camp. They would be sequestered at first, until they had proven adaptable. Iullianus stopped watching and started shoveling, trying to avoid pressure on his blisters and wondering if elephants had personalities evident to themselves. Were some elephants kind and caring?  Were others complete arseholes?

His head rose, moments later, at the sound of shouting. The Parthian leader was screaming at Amasis. The man was shouting back, but he was much smaller and wasn't armed. Iullianus moved closer, inconspicuously, shoveling crumbling old piles of dung to the side. He could just hear the conversation.

“We bring six elephants. We are paid for six elephants,” the leader of the hunters said. Some of his men stood in a line behind him, a silent promise of menace.

“That's not how it works, and you know it,” Amasis said. “We pay quarter rates for female elephants. They won't fight the males.”

“They fought us,” the Parthian said, eyebrows glowering. “I lost Gebal and Rensi. We froze our testes off in the wet forests and we were caught by a flash flood in the plains. We were hunted by lions and tribesmen. We don’t do this for fucking quarter rates.”

His hand went to his sword. Amasis cried for help. The elephant trainers were out of sight--they might have heard, but Iullianus was much closer.  Before he could think about it, he was running towards them, shovel in hand.

The leader didn't see him, or didn't care. One of the men behind him did notice the tall red-headed warrior running at them, and moved to block him.

The Parthian had the sword at the overseer's throat. “Blade is last thing you see. Pay now,” he said harshly.

Iullianus reached them. The man who had come to meet them drew his sword, but it was a short blade, and he was much smaller than the charging warrior was. Iullianus slammed the shovel into the man’s face.  The sound of cartilage crumbling was very loud. The man collapsed, elephant shit smeared onto his face. The other hunters were belatedly springing into action. They drew blades, brandished spears, and one had a long coil of rope.

“What are you doing?” Amasis cried. The blade was at his throat.

“For this, you need a warrior,” Iullianus said. He was alive and filled with confident energy.

“No, I will pay, I will pay!” Amasis yelped.

No one heeded his cries. Iullianus shifted his grip on the shovel, that little friend, and drove the blade into the stomach of an oncoming hunter. The man wore leather armor, and the shovel wasn't sharp, but the impact drove his breath away with a woof. The man fell to the ground.

Iullianus jumped into the air and landed on the unfortunate man’s head. He felt the skull fracture beneath his heavy tread and nearly lost his balance, but stumbled forward, toward his opponents.

Amasis took advantage of the distraction; turning and fleeing back into the camp. Before he had taken two steps, the Parthian leader took a long stride and slid the sword through his back. Amasis made a strange, clucking noise, and then fell heavily. The hook-nosed leader drew another sword from his belt.

Mithras, Iullianus thought. He'd perhaps made a mistake. Then he was beset by the three swordsmen. He would not have had a chance, if they’d fought with the discipline and coordination of soldiers. He didn’t have much of a chance anyway, fighting against multiple enemies armed with only a shit-stained shovel, but the men fought him individually, and there were few individuals in this land who could beat him man to man.

A sword swung through the sky. Iullianus blocked the overhand blow with the shaft of his shovel and an ugly clang, but another blade came at him, at his chest, and he had no choice but to block with his hand. His left hand flew out and he leaned back. The blade bit into his flesh.

Iullianus howled with agony as immense pain filled his body, but his hand was still there, and the sword hadn’t gone deep. His blisters had saved him, he realized.

The man who had hit his hand, and the other whose blow he had parried, both slowly backed away. Everyone was backing away. Everyone, save him.

The leader of the hunters moved menacingly closer to the big warrior. His sword dipped low and he growled in anger and anticipation. Battle lust danced merrily in his eyes. Iullianus hefted the shovel in his good hand, and sighed.

An arrow flew over both of them, less than a foot from the Parthian’s head. Iullianus looked behind him and saw the other three trainers, armed with bows. The old man was with them, and a few of the older children, toting rocks and sticks. They were jogging from the elephant fields.

The Parthian could think quickly. He instantly raised his off hand and swirled it in an unspoken command. His men eased back, toward the gate.

“Get back!  Run, you dogs,” Iullianus roared. His hand leaked blood into the earth.

The leader of the hunters glared at him with hatred, and his expression spoke clearly enough. Another time.

The hunters slipped out of the compound and departed into the desert.

Iullianus willed his heart to stop beating.

“What happened?”  One of the trainers asked.

“Treachery,” Iullianus said. Instinct told him that lies would serve better than truth. “They wanted it all.”  Better to keep it vague.  Someone cried out as they discovered Amasis lying dead on the ground.

The others looked at him carefully. Iullianus was grateful once again for the old man’s silence. He barely knew these men, so they had no reason to trust him. On the other hand, they didn’t know him well enough to assume that he was lying, either.

“He never should have hired that lot,” another trainer said at last. “I warned him. You can’t ever trust a Parthian.”  They moved away, to comfort Amasis’ wife and children. Others went to ensure that the gates were closed. Iullianus was alone with his pain.

Almost alone.

The old man moved closer. He had his little shovel in his hand as he stared at Iullianus, hand dripping darkly onto the earth. The old one looked at Amasis, lifeless, with a sword through his heart. He looked at the two remaining men of the hunting party, one dead, and the other blowing blood through his flattened nose. He leaned on his shovel, looked right at Iullianus.

“Useless,” he said.

CHAPTER IV

Rome: 79 CE, Spring

Felix screamed with excitement. He was one of tens of thousands who had come for the grand opening of the amphitheater. The first day of games had been declared a holiday, and even the slaves had the day free. Nominally, they were able to do whatever they wished, but one would be hard-pressed to find a slave in Rome not attending the games. Felix had been in Rome for six years now, and a chance to watch the games was as good as his year could get.

Hyacinthus sat beside him. The big Greek slave was even fatter than the day they’d met, and he’d come to the games more than reluctantly. “Those are entertainments for the young and the stupid, and I’ve seen enough real blood not to lust after deadly entertainment,” he’d complained. Felix had begged to get him to come.  Despite his earlier misgivings, the Greek was shouting as loudly as anyone was. Below them, on the floor of the amphitheater, two massive bulls with deadly sharp horns were trying to kill a raging elephant.

The two of them were sitting high up, above even the highest marble seats, where wooden benches had been hastily added to accommodate the crowds. It was early, and many of the people around them were still eating their ientaculum. Rich and poor, the first meal for most in Rome was fresh-baked bread dipped in a mixture of wine and water. For Felix, this was enough. Hyacinthus always ate more, but today he had a few meaty handfuls of dates and olives.

It was the first morning of a hundred days of games. Each day would follow a similar pattern: the morning was filled with battles amongst the animals. The current clash involved some of the biggest and fiercest, but later days would feature lions, leopards, boars, buffalo, ostriches, camels, crocodiles, and, rumor had it, a rhinoceros. Over the hundred days of games, some five thousand animals would perish to bathe the new arena in blood. Mostly they fought each other, but some were saved for the afternoon.

It was then that the deserters, prisoners-of-war, and criminals would be killed. These executions could be so brutal that it was customary for the Emperor to leave, but Felix was eager to see them. Many of the executions would be creative and entertaining. Crucifixions were boring, but for these games they had brought back damnatio ad bestias.

Death by beasts. The rumored entertainments sounded wonderfully inventive. A terribly large eagle would eat the innards of a doomed patricide, cast in the role of Prometheus. A prisoner from the Celtiberians would be cast as Orpheus, playing his lute until the starving animals could no longer stand it and would rend him to pieces. A female slave convicted of stealing from her master would be Pasiphae, raped by either a bull, a man in a bull costume, or as one rumor promised, both at the same time.

Later in the day, after the executions, came the real entertainment. The gladiators, the races, and the battle recreations would be watched by tens of thousands of people. It would take place here before spreading out to other venues. A sea battle was to be fought, and that was no rumor. On the following days, the chariot races would begin at the hippodrome. If the events of this morning played out correctly, Felix hoped to have a part in later games.

Now, however, was the opening day featured fight, and it was enthralling. A Thracian black bull and a Gaulish brown one, both bigger and meaner than their domesticated cousins, were on the attack against a massive elephant. The brown bull stabbed at the elephant’s side, while it was distracted by the menace of the black bull. Those sharp horns could find no purchase in the tough hide of the beast, however, and the elephant turned and charged. It was ponderously big, and it was devastatingly quick.

The brown bull was caught in its path before it had a chance even to consider moving. Tusks drove deep into flesh, and moments later, the elephant trampled the bull with heavy footfalls. The elephant’s massive feet slammed into its back, splintering bone. The brown bull collapsed into a mewling heap, dying, and in hideous pain.

Felix felt some sympathy for the shattered bull, but it was removed—he desperately needed the elephant to win. One bull was down, but the boy grew alarmed. The elephant, deadly fast in a straight line, was slow in turning around. Too slow. The black bull’s charge caught it in the rear leg, just above the knee. The bull had enough mass and enough momentum to impact even its mammoth opponent, and the elephant tottered.

Felix was assailed by panic and regret. “You shouldn’t have bet all your coin on this one, boy,” Hyacinthus said, not unkindly.

“He was so big,” Felix said. “I’ve never seen an elephant so big.”

“Bigger than African or Asian elephants,” his friend said. “That one was born far away, much further south than you yourself. In Taprobane. The greatest fighting elephants in the world come from there.”

“How could he then lose?” Felix asked.

“He was favored. Never bet on the favorite. Better to spend coin on long odds, else you risk losing all and stand to gain little. But watch—not yet is all hope lost.”

The bull’s horns were locked into the elephant’s hide. The elephant turned its head and smacked at the bull with his trunk. It connected solidly, but the bull was too massive to be dislodged. The bull kept pushing, and the elephant’s leg buckled.

It collapsed. Luckily, for the bull, the pachyderm fell away from it. The gargantuan beast slammed into the ground with crushing force, dust flying. The elephant trumpeted in fear and pain, and even from where Felix sat, the sound was deafening.

The black bull wrenched its horns free from its opponent’s leg and shook its head. Hot steam blew from its nostrils as it backed up. Its hooves slipped a little in the dust. Felix ground his teeth in frustration. Through some bestial instinct, it knew where to strike next. The elephant’s stomach was covered in the same tough hide as the rest of its body, but it could be pierced by those long, sharp horns. Behind both animals, the brown bull, still dying, cried pitifully as blood oozed from its shattered back.

The bull charged with organ-rupturing force. Then it skidded to a stop as the elephant moved its three good feet together, forming a wall in front of its vulnerable inside. The path to victory was suddenly, unexpectedly closed. The crowd cheered again and Felix and Hyacinthus cheered with it. The bull stopped in consternation.

Behind it, the brown bull was screaming still. Its agony echoed through the vast coliseum. A force of the Praetorian Guard stood next to the vast gate, sharp blades ready to silence the poor beast, but they did not yet dare approach the titanic struggle.

In one manic lunge, the elephant jerked itself back onto its feet. The bull backed up even more, trying to create room for another charge.

The elephant charged first. It was slower now, with one foot maimed, but still far too fast. Somehow, with asymmetrical grace and head lowered, it rushed forward. It hit the black bull and lifted its powerful head. The bull, three thousand pounds of anger and muscle, was tossed ten feet into the air. Felix gasped.

The bull landed on its feet, and woozily took a step. The elephant's charge caught it again. The tusks pierced the bull’s head and drove through to its brain. The great beast sagged and instantly died.

“Unbelievable,” whispered Hyacinthus next to him.

The Coliseum roared its hearty approval, but what happened next was even more astounding. The weary pachyderm walked unsteadily until it was standing directly below Emperor Titus. It swayed there for a moment, then fell to its knees and knelt before the Emperor. Ten times ten thousand throats fell silent, as people stood to witness the beast’s obeisance, and then the roar came back, better than ever. Rome had a new champion, and the people adored him.

Felix felt relief flow through him. He had bet all the money he could find, and had borrowed from the type of men that he really shouldn’t have dealt with. If Hyacinthus had known, he would have sat on him rather than let him deal with them, but he had won, and with the day’s winnings he could do something much greater—enter the games himself. “Let’s go collect our winnings,” he said to Hyacinthus after they had cheered themselves hoarse. The big man had bet on the elephant, the bulls together, and both bulls individually. He would lose money today, but not much. They walked out of the stands, away from the still deafening chorus of cheers.

The people of Rome needed the games like never before. Vespasian was dead. The old warrior had left Rome suddenly on urgent business and was found dead in a posting-inn. The gods themselves had grieved, and Rome suffered for their grief.

A great fire abused the city, destroying prodigious amounts of life and property. It burned for three days and for three nights, as black smoke rising so high that the very sun turned red and the afternoon light turned gray. It rained ashes for days. Agrippa’s Pantheon was destroyed, as was the Temple of Jupiter and most of Pompey’s theater. Fire and ash was not the worst enemy, however.

Plague came stalking through the ashes. This was worse, and not just the poor died. Disease was terribly indiscriminate, and many noblemen breathed their last. From the old and rich to the young and poor, the sickness struck all. The only ones seemingly unaffected were the Jews. The people of Rome noticed this, and lynchings became regular. Emperor Titus was forced to banish his favorite mistress, who was Jewish. Felix had stayed in his master’s stables for three weeks to avoid persecution.

The gods were not satiated yet, however, and still worse was to come. The sacred Mt. Vesuvius unleashed its fiery fury, and instantly four towns had ceased to exist. The tens of thousands who lived in Pompeii, Herculaneum, Stabiae and Oplontis, died within moments, within heartbeats. This was the fractured, bleeding Empire that Titus had inherited. The people truly needed their games.

Felix and Hyacinthus collected their winnings and quickly returned to the amphitheater. Felix carefully kept his hand on his money bag. There were many thieves in the city, and most would be here today. He felt the urge to return home and stash it, but there was nowhere a slave could truly keep his possessions safe, and he did not want to miss the Emperor’s speech.

Titus stood. He was a tall, handsome man. They couldn’t hear the Emperor from this far away, but all knew that he was dedicating the colossal building to his father, Vespasian. Though Titus had finished the building, his father had begun the work not long after coming into power.

Hyacinthus turned to him. “Does it not bother you?”

“Doesn’t what bother me?” Felix asked.

“The place,” the big man said, “it took ten years for them to build, using all the treasure from the Jewish rebellion. If your people hadn’t been quite so ruthlessly crushed, this place wouldn’t exist.”

“They’re not my people,” Felix said. “I am sixteen. I’ve lived half my life in Rome.”

“As a slave,” the fat man pointed out.

“They were traitors,” Felix said.

“Just as mine were,” the Greek said. “It seems the Romans are good at finding traitors everywhere.”

“What does that mean?” Felix asked. He felt irrationally angry. “My father told me that good always triumphs over evil. He was right—he just didn’t realize his side was bad. It wasn’t their fault, it was Simon’s.”

“Calm down, Felix,” Hyacinthus said with a little laugh that suggested the matter had never been a serious one. “I know you don’t like talking about what happened before. Most slaves don’t. I merely am curious. Please forgive me.”

Behind him, cheering started. Felix looked and saw three lavishly dressed attendants appear on the marble steps below them. They carried, very slowly, a large wooden box. Two proseda, clad in very little, sauntered beside them. Hyacinthus grinned.

“What are you smiling at? You don’t even like women,” Felix said.

“I like what they bring,” Hyacinthus said. “Watch.”

The blonde woman reached into the box and pulled out a handful of wooden balls. She handed a few to her friend, and they both started flinging the spheres throughout the crowd. Large groups stood up and cheered, hoping to attract the wanton women’s attention.

Felix shouted too, his voice hoarse from the earlier efforts.

“Cease. They’ll not throw them up here,” Hyacinthus said.

“What are they?”

“Promises. They can be exchanged for food, clothing, horses, silver, gold, even slaves,” the older man said.

“I want to win one. Imagine, earning a horse in an instant. Emperor Titus is a great man.”

“It’s not his idea. Nero gave away golden statues, hundreds of them, but they’d never let slaves have something so valuable. They will not throw their promises into the free seats.” His voice was thoughtful. “Let’s go get some food. I’m hungry.”

They fought their way through the crowds and left the mighty amphitheater. Directly outside, they passed the only part of Nero’s Golden House still standing. Inside the palace were the new bathhouses of Titus, which had been only just been completed for today’s events. Just next to them were the thermopoli.

These mobile carts could be moved to any street corner in the city and could be found anywhere in Rome. Felix paid the smallest coin he’d won that day and received four big dates, the likes of which he’d picked from trees as a youth, another world ago. Hyacinthus was well-known to the vendors, and he ordered hot sausages and cheese from one, bread from another, and cake and wine from a third.