COMPETITIONS IN THIS ISSUE

Short Story

Adulation by Steven Beeho

 Claudius stepped out of the steaming bath and let the two girls dry him off, then stretched out on the stone and groaned blissfully as two men began to massage his body. He needed this, he knew it. Not just to loosen his muscles but to relax him or else he would be trembling with excitement. Despite all the years he had been a gladiator; he still loved to kill.

   The two men kneaded his tall, well-muscled body all over so he felt almost limp, but when they had finished he rose and stretched. The men and girls brought over his armour and dressed him, pulling on boots and gloves, belting on his leather kilt and then strapping on the sash of chain mail that protected his torso, yet didn’t cover it; he knew many in the crowd liked to see his well-toned figure.

   One of the girls handed him his helm, they all knew only he put this on, it was his most treasured possession. The bronze gleamed like the sun itself and the long plume of white horse hair swished as he brought it above his head, then pulled it on. He felt the padded leather on the inside press against the sides of his face as the helm fitted snugly upon his head and he strapped it on tightly.

   He went to a mirror and admired himself, checking his attire at the same time. Claudius always liked to look good for the crowds, they loved a beautiful hero to cheer, and they did cheer him a lot. But they also loved him because he won. Claudius was one of the best gladiators in Rome, a constant champion who hadn’t lost a fight once and carried only a few scars. His superiority was such that Claudius no longer saw these contests as fights, he was too good for anything the slave masters put in the arena with him. He saw them more as performances, himself entertaining the crowds as he battled and slew his foe. Looking himself up and down one last time, he could see he was ready to perform once more.

   He strode from the room and entered another one, full of weapons. He pulled a sword from a rack and caressed its smooth blade, then replaced it. Today he wanted to really tantalise the crowd, he wanted to keep them on the edge of their seats and gasp and cheer at every move he made. He would torment his opponent by slowly cutting him to pieces, risking his life a few times, and then soar on the ecstasy of applause as he finally finished him.

   For this he took up a trident before searching for another weapon to wield. He considered a shield, then a net, and finally selected a whip; he would humiliate his foe and so exalt himself.

   Ready for blood, Claudius left this room and walked into a long marble hallway. His steps echoed loudly as he headed for the arena, his body tingling with excitement, he had to keep himself from running in. He could already hear the chattering as the spectators waited for his arrival, soon all gossip would cease and they would think only of him.

   As he came nearer, horns sounded and he could hear the arena go quiet. Then boos and jeers sounded and Claudius smiled as he knew his opponent was being brought out, mere fodder for their champion. He knew little of his victim today, only that he was a recently captured Briton. He was probably under-fed, abused and terrified; as if it wasn’t going to be an easy enough contest already.

   Now the horns sounded again and an intense silence fell upon the arena as all waited for Claudius to appear. He felt their awe and expectation pour into him and his spirit soared, soon he would perform and know joy.

   The roar at his entrance hit like a wave, crashing onto him and then softening and ebbing into every pore of his skin. With a yell of ecstasy, Claudius punched both hands into the air in acceptance of their adoration, the trident’s points glinting in the hot sun, the whip dangling from his other hand and brushing against his leg as he turned in a full circle to greet the entire audience. He moved further out, his boots crunching the sand beneath as he continued to bask in the tremendous applause, seeing some enter bets with one another as to how quickly he will be victorious, others talk of past glories, and many simply adore his magnificent form.

   Now at the centre of the arena, Claudius looked at his opponent, still bound by the chains the two soldiers held. With broad shoulders and thick limbs the prisoner was obviously a match for most at strength, but his ragged clothes and beard showed he was far from peak condition and his wild eyes proved to Claudius that he had no idea of what was happening. The gladiator nodded and the guards removed the manacles and left the arena, only after one had dropped an old, chipped sword at the Briton’s feet. At Claudius’ gesture, he bent to pick it up.

   The whip lashed about his wrist and the prisoner was dragged forward into Claudius’ rising knee, which nearly broke his nose and sent him flying backwards onto the sand.

   Laughter mixed with the cheers.

   Claudius backed away, noting the anger in his opponent’s eyes and loving it, he would be so much better to trick and play with. The man picked up his sword and, with a roar, charged at Claudius, who stepped aside and stroked his back with his trident. The Briton cried out and reached behind him, feeling the three lines of blood, then span and leapt. Smiling, Claudius blocked the sword with his trident, wrapped his whip about the other’s neck, twisted and hurled him away. More cheering and amusement sounded as the prisoner landed on his rump, yet he rose quickly.

   But he had to back away as Claudius snapped his whip at him several times, small cuts appearing on his face and arms. Then he spat something in his foreign tongue, probably a curse, before rushing at his tormentor, only to stagger and fall as the trident lanced out and slashed open his thigh. Now he had to fight on one knee, desperately fending off the trident as it poked at him, its wielder near laughing with delight.

   Claudius decided it was time to thrill the crowd by putting himself in danger, and tripped as he jabbed forward, nearly tumbling onto his foe but landing on the sand next to him instead. With a snarl the prisoner pounced, only for the gladiator to roll away just in time and come to his feet with only his whip in his hand. Gasps sounded as the spectators feared for their hero, yet he dodged one swing of the blade, then another, then ducked and rolled forward, snatching up his trident and scratching the bewildered prisoner across his bleeding back, before waving to his ecstatic audience.

   The Briton came again, only to the same result, yet this time the trident cracked down on his sword and it snapped in half. The prisoner leapt back, stunned and dismayed to say the least, gripping his weapon in both hands as if willing it to grow back to its original length. Yet it didn’t and the whip lashed about his neck as Claudius made to pull him onto his trident. He paused, savouring the moment, yet was surprised to see the countenance of his victim change from terror to hatred and fury. Then fear touched himself as he recognised the mad gleam in the Briton’s eyes, this man now wanted to kill him, and cared for nothing else, even his own life.

   It was he who pulled on the whip, not Claudius, and due to his shock the trident merely gashed the slave’s side, a wound ignored. Claudius could not do the same however as the Briton, with every ounce of the anger and venom inside him, slammed his broken blade into his abdomen. All fell silent as Claudius gagged, doubled over and collapsed onto the sand. He fell back, now lying stretched out, and slowly he brought his hand up to touch the weapon jutting from him. He grasped the hilt, yet released it as agony shot through him, then he raised his hand further to see his own blood dripping from it, splashing onto his chest. For the first time in his life Claudius was seriously wounded; he felt numb with shock and fear.

   Then he looked to the Briton who stood over him, heaving, sweating, bleeding, disbelief on his face too. Then a smile appeared, and it grew into a broad, evil grin. He stopped and picked up the trident, then clasped it with both hands, points toward Claudius.

   He scrambled back, fear overwhelming the pain he felt at movement. He didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to leave his wonderful existence for whatever lay beyond, if anything. Sheer dread took hold of him at the very thought of being dead, not to mention the agony of feeling the weapon pierce his flesh and drive into bone and organs. From experience, Claudius knew his end would not be quick or painless.

   He called for mercy, begged the advancing man to let him live, but his words went without understanding and his gestures were ignored. The whip still hung from the Briton’s neck and blood streamed from the many openings in his body, but he continued his steady pursuit, grin twisted with rage, eyes alight with desire for revenge. Claudius threw sand at him, desperate to survive as he pulled himself away from the vicious weapon, leaving a trail of blood, and with it went his strength. His movements slowed, his head sagged, despite the screaming urge to live his body could no longer respond. He collapsed.

   He sobbed as the Briton stood over him, ready to strike. He had spent too much of his life enjoying it to dwell upon his mortality, but now it was his all. Surely he wouldn’t die, there must be some way he could live on. To him death was incomprehensible, to not be, to no longer fight, or kill, or hear the applause, or anything. This could not be, it would not…

   He spasmed as the trident spikes bore into his chest. He tried to cry out but only blood burst from his mouth as it flooded his lungs, causing him to choke. Pain wracked him and he writhed and buckled, clawing at the second weapon to sink into him, but then his limbs dropped, his eyes glazed, and his head flopped down.

   The prisoner withdrew the trident and moved back, weary. Then he jumped as the entire arena burst into applause, cheering and praising their new hero. Despite these people being alien to him he understood their actions, even if he was amazed by them. He had expected death today, and still did, but those around him did nothing apart from clap and cheer. With a grin, he lifted his weapon high and accepted his audience’s adulation.

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