Yesterday's Warrior, page 5
He saw fear in his friend’s eyes and tried to smile encouragingly and failed miserably. Thad felt that fear, but something more as well. An overwhelming sense of foreboding undulated through his body. Even if he wanted to turn and run, there was no place for him or his friends to run to. If they even managed to escape the Colosseum, they would have to navigate the streets of Rome. They could always head south and perhaps find their way to Sicily or just south, but they were naked as the day they were born and the coins that they had were long gone.
Having tried and failed to find the rift in time, they were all stuck here. He had not one clue as to what to do and how to survive. All his knowledge came from movies and TV. He had looked up information about the Colosseum this morning on his phone, but that was just a brief blurb. Had it only been a few hours ago that he’d been in his hotel room? Once more he felt the prickle of tears and pushed those feelings of loss and sorrow down. He looked over his shoulders at the slaves behind him. They were thin and their loincloths were ragged and dirty. He noted the numerous scars that were peppered over their bodies.
He turned his attention ahead. He noticed that he could no longer hear the noise down in the subterranean space of the tunnels. No more roar of the crowd, no people shouting. He wondered where this tunnel led and realized the floor was sloping up. Ahead he saw a sliver of light that was growing and realized that there was a gate at the end of the tunnel. His heart did a triple flip. Were they going back out to fight again? Or were they headed to some kind of execution? He was hit again with the fact that there was nowhere to run, nowhere to go. He and his friends were trapped and they were dead men walking.
They drew close and the gate creaked open and the sewage stench was left behind as Thad Giangreco stepped onto the grass of the Ludus Magnus. His gaze moved over the large arena and the partially constructed building that surrounded the arena. It was massive and because the Ludus Magnus was still under construction, that told Thad roughly the year they now lived. Then he remembered what Scauras had said with regard to the emperor’s name. Titus Flavius Caesar Domitianus Augustus. So, it was more than likely 92 or 93 CE because Ludus Magnus wasn’t quite completed. From the pictures he’d seen this morning, what it had looked like before, the structure was nearing completion.
His gaze shifted and he saw men wandering all over the arena and grounds of the Ludus. It seemed like most were slaves, who wore little more than loincloths and no shoes. They were thin and by contrast, he saw men who were well built and well fed. Those must be the gladiators and many were down in the arena fighting, though it looked like an organized training. It felt somehow familiar, but he wasn’t sure why and then it hit him. Boot camp. When they had gone through training with weapons or hand to hand combat, it was similar. Something tight along his shoulders loosened and the tight band across his chest eased.
Thad understood training, he’d done it since he had joined Tae Kwon Do in Japan. He’d been fourteen at the time and he and his little sister, Serena, had been forced to join. He remembered being resentful at first, he had wanted to hang out with his new friends. His parents had put their foot down and said he needed an organized sport until he could join basketball or football. So, he and Serena had gone and after a while, he had begun to enjoy it and he also enjoyed more control over his tall thin body. He sighed and pushed that memory along with his sister down deep. The pain of never seeing her again hurt like a bloody gaping wound.
Seeing the training ground, Thad realized that he and his friends would end up there. When would he go back over to the Colosseum? He turned to look but the high walls of the Ludus blocked his view. He could hear the crowd, however, and he remembered their screaming faces, imprinted on his retinas. He felt a touch from behind and realized he’d stopped. The slave hadn’t shoved him and he was glad. He would hate to be a slave here and then mentally laughed, he was a slave, just a different kind of slave. He felt the warmth of the sun hit him; it dissipated the chill from the tunnel and also the fear that had coiled around the back of his brain.
Ahead, two men came toward them. One man wore a thigh high tunic of ochre with decorative piping around the collar. He was a tall man with broad shoulders. There was a wide leather belt that hung loosely on his hips. He wore sandals made from leather that came up to his ankles. They looked soft and formed around his feet, as though after years of wear, they fit the man perfectly. He had a large beaked nose with large dark eyes and those eyes scrutinized the Marines. He had close cropped dark hair with silver at the temples. There were deep grooves by his eyes and mouth. He was sunbaked. The other man was a fire hydrant, short and squat. He had curled ears that stuck out from the side of his head and he was bald. His tunic was longer and reached his cankles. His toenails were yellowed and thick and curled up. Thad thought that a diamond grinder would take care of those.
“What have you here?” the taller man asked.
“My master, Scauras, has sent these men to you, doctore. He asks that you have the medicus look them over and in a day or so, evaluate them,” Appuleius said.
The taller man man’s gaze once more went over them, his face curious but passive. He turned to the fire hydrant.
“Scauras has a good eye,” doctore said.
“He does indeed,” fire hydrant said.
Thad and his friends stood ramrod straight and waited. It was as though they stood in formation for inspection by the gunnery sergeant. This must be the gunny, or doctore. Thad remembered hearing that name, but thought that it actually meant doctor. It didn’t and he figured they were being handed over to this man.
“So, I shall evaluate them,” doctore said and turned to the fire hydrant.
“I’ll get them taken care of, Glaucis and let you know,” doctore said.
“Thank you, Lucius, I’m going upstairs,” Glaucis said and turned and left. The doctore turned and faced Thad and his friends, his attention on them now.
“I am Titu Lucius but you shall address me as doctore or maestro. You will be assigned a chamber where you shall stay confined there until you are evaluated,” Lucius said and turned, lifting an arm. A man came forward with four slaves who carried shackles. Thad watched as each slave knelt and placed the iron shackles around each of his friends. He felt the cold bite of the metal and wanted to kick the slave away from him, but instead, he stood as still as a statue. His friends did the same. He felt the vibration of a hammer as the cuffs were secured. Once the shackles were distributed among the four men, the slaves melted away, their faces carefully blank.
“This is Cato Decimus, he will be your il domatore, your trainer. You will listen and obey him, as though it was my mouth that speak the words. To do otherwise will see you lashed. The gods have smiled upon you, for you are to be trained to fight and fight well and die well. Work hard, train hard and you shall survive the arena. Do poorly and you shall die quickly. I can see that you men are no strangers to hard work, so this should go smoothly. After the medicus attends you, you shall bathe, then eat and go to your chamber,” he said and then turned and walked away.
Cato Decimus was bald, though Thad thought perhaps he just shaved his head. The man had a large mole on his temple that looked like it had been ripped off and regrown over and over. It was puckered and misshapen. He had dark olive skin and thick black eyebrows. He was of average height and fairly slender but not skinny. Cato also had several missing teeth and when he spoke, his voice was deep, as though it belonged to a larger and more robust man.
“Alright you dog’s penises, move along, we’ll let the medicus tend you,” he said and Thad and his friends began to move forward. The chain bit into his ankles and he gritted his teeth. Like the other men, he had to shorten his stride. They walked along the gallery on the first floor. Fluted columns held up the second floor and there were curved archways throughout. It was weird because it all seemed almost new and shiny, unlike the rubble he’d seen this morning. It was also massive. He studied the architecture and remembered that the Colosseum had looked new as well, though he knew it wasn’t. It had stood the test of time and when he was down on the sand, it felt much bigger than it had this morning.
Marco felt eyes on his back and wanted to turn and look but did not. He followed the other men and his eyes shifted from left to right, taking in his surroundings. He noted the many cells, with iron gates in them. Barracks, his mind told him. There were pallets on the floor and it looked to be roughly ten to a room.
Out of the sun now, Marco felt the coolness of the shade under the passageway. His face throbbed with each heartbeat and the cold metal rubbed and cut at his ankles. He had only understood about half of what doctore and the other man said. He was glad they were seeing a doctor, but it frightened him with regard to what that medical treatment would be. Would he get an infection and his face rot off? He’d seen that the doctore and Cato had numerous scars but these men grew up in this time and were used to the germs and such. Would his body heal better or worse than these ancient men?
No one had spoken since they left the arena. What could they say? They were truly fucked and what in the hell could you even say about that? They came to another opening and Cato stopped and opened a door. He stood waiting as Marco and the others went through. It was a large room and it stank of old blood. There were long low tables around the large room with many windows that opened to the outside. The room was bright, but only because the sun was shining in through the open windows.
An old man turned from a work bench that held bowls, numerous pestle and mortars. There were wooden boxes stacked to one side, several tall ewers and squat pitchers and decorative jugs.
“Aulus, we have new men. Doctore wishes them to be attended,” Cato said.
“So, I shall,” the old man said and turned and indicated the low tables. Marco shuffled over and stood by the table, the chains clinking and rubbing. A slave came into the dispensary with an armload of rags and another slave walked over and poured liquid into a bowl. The slave brought the bowl over to what Marco assumed was the physician, Aulus. The old man stepped over to Marco and gently pushed him to sit on the low table. Marco breathed through his mouth, the old man’s breath was rank and he was filled with panic. His eyes went to the old man’s hands and the nails were filthy.
I won’t freaking die from a sword, I’ll die from filth and infection, Marco thought, a panic beginning to build.
“Get my case,” the old man ordered the slave. Marco watched as the slave hurried over to the work table and brought back a case. Then the slave went to the table and brought a shallow bowl over. He caught the scent of vinegar and saw strings floating in the bowl. The doctor opened the box and Marco saw golden needles, some straight, some curved, all sharp. He swallowed and knew that the doctor was going to sew up his face. His eyes found his friends and he saw that the slaves were cleaning their wounds.
He tried not to hyperventilate and he gripped the edge of the table with his hands. The doctor dipped a rag into a bowl of milky solution and began to wipe at Marco’s cheek. Marco let out a long hiss of pain, but otherwise sat still, his hands gripping the edge of the bench. His body was rigid with pain and anticipation. The doctor was surprisingly gentle as he wiped the blood that had begun to crust. He felt one of the slaves wiping at his other wounds.
The doctor said nothing as he did his work and Marco was glad. If the man opened his mouth, he was sure that the horrible breath would reach him and between that and the pain, he was sure he would puke. He watched as the doctor set the rag aside and fished out one of the floating strings from the bowl. The old man then pulled a thin curved needle and threaded it. Marco waited, dreading it but knowing it had to be done. The doctor dabbed at his face again with a cloth and then with his knotted and swollen fingers, pushed the needle through the flesh on Marco’s cheek.
Marco closed his eyes as the hot pain shot through his face. The old man was fast, but not fast enough and with each puncture of the needle, Marco wanted to scream. He could hear the men behind him and their low murmurs, but could not spare them any notice. He could only focus on trying not to scream out in pain as the needle went in and out of his abused raw flesh. Then it stopped and he opened his eyes and saw that the doctor had gone to his work table. He was grinding something in the mortar, he heard the slow grind of it. He looked over to Thad, Greg and Dean. Dean was as white as a sheet and Marco saw the fear in the blue depths.
It was hard not to be angry at Dean, but he had to remind himself once again, that he had gone willingly and joyfully down into the tunnels. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Marco’s father was a doctor and had urged him to go to medical school. Marco hadn’t wanted that and had gone instead, into the Marines. It was way too late for regrets now. The doctor came back and poured liquid into the small bowl and once more, Marco caught the scent of vinegar which was now mixed with some kind of herb and the sweet tang of honey. Taking a finger of the mixture, the doctor wiped it along the stitches. Then along the other abrasions on Marco’s body. He turned and went to the other men and did the same. Marco looked down at the long scrape across his middle and saw the leaves stuck to his wound.
With a tentative finger, he wiped it across some of the mixture and sniffed at it. He couldn’t identify it, but he did detect the honey and vinegar. His body and wounds still throbbed, but it seemed not as bad as it had been earlier.
“Please stand now, that I may examine you,” the old doctor said. Marco got off the table and stood and his friends came to stand beside him. The old doctor felt about his head and neck, then shoulders, and ribs. He pressed his old hand into Marco’s gut.
“Cough,” the old man ordered and Marco coughed. Then the hands moved downward and Marco wanted to jerk back when the old man held his genitals, but then the old man moved on, pressing in on each side of his hips and then moved down to his knees. Next, the old man took each of Marco’s hands and studied them and his arms. Then patted Marco on the shoulder and moved onto Greg, who stood right beside him.
Cato stood by the door and watched with bored indifference. Marco figured the man had seen these proceedings hundreds if not thousands of times. Cato picked at his nose and examined the excavation and wiped it on the wall beside him, then scratched at his groin. Cato wore a short tunic like doctore, but this one had no adornments. Marco thought that perhaps the more decorations or adornments on clothing, the higher the rank, but he just wasn’t sure. Cato was barefooted and he looked down at the doctor’s feet and the old man wore simple sandals that looked like they were three steps away from falling apart. The old man had a hump on his back and Marco thought of his abuela, who had osteoporosis. The old man’s legs were bowed out and he walked slowly, rocking from side to side.
“They are done, you may take them,” the old man announced and Cato stepped forward to usher them through the door.
“I shall take you to the bathhouse, latrina, toilets and once you have finished, to the kitchen. Mind your wounds in the bathhouse,” Cato warned.
Greg’s stomach rumbled at the mention of food. For all the pain and horror, he had experienced in a few short hours, his body reminded him that he was still alive and he was hungry, the gelato having long since gone away. He was glad that his wounds no longer hurt but the shackles around his ankles chafed. He looked down and thought about his ancestors long ago and he wondered if this were how they felt. He was a slave now and he wasn’t fooled by the label gladiator. As the doctore had said, fight well and die well. He had no idea what the life span was of a gladiator, but if it were any indication of what he’d just experienced in the Colosseum, it wouldn’t be long.
However, seeing the doctore and Cato, both men had obviously been gladiators and both men were much older than he and his friends. So, perhaps there was hope? If he could survive, was there a way out of this? Hadn’t he seen in the movies, about winning the favor of the crowd? He wasn’t sure and his brain was still in numbed disbelief as to what was happening. He was afraid if he thought about it too hard that he would break down and lose it. Marco’s face was swollen and red from the slash mark. Each of them had bruises, scrapes and cuts all over their bodies.
He didn’t even want to think about the fact that he was stark naked and had been so in front of thousands of people, some of them women. He’d not seen the women, only the men. It didn’t matter as he looked around him. The slaves were nearly naked with only a scrap of dirty cloth covering their junk. The slaves kept their eyes to the ground and didn’t look them in the face. Their entire body’s posture echoed defeat. Greg stood a little straighter. He would not be that way; he would not accept defeat. They moved and turned and went into a large room.
He could smell water and his mouth felt suddenly dry. When was the last time he actually drank something? This morning, when he’d had a cappuccino with a cornetto. His mouth watered, thinking about the pastry and he swallowed. He went to a bench and sat down and several slaves came over. Cato said something to them, but it was too fast for him to understand. He was going to have to learn Italian quicker, he didn’t like it when he didn’t know what these people were saying. Once more he was struck by the comparison of his ancestors arriving as slaves in America and not understanding the words that were being spoken around them.
A slave took a rag and began to wipe his limbs and Greg felt immediately uncomfortable and conscientious of his nakedness. He noted that the attendants were mindful of the areas of injury and avoided wiping the areas.
“You shall bathe…” Cato said and Greg only understood the few words. Another slave came and gently patted them down with towels and then Cato said something and pointed to low benches with holes, in the next room. Startled, Greg realized that they were toilets. He followed behind Thad and wanted to ask him questions, but didn’t want Cato to hear him. He was self-conscious of sitting on the seat and hoped to god the seats were clean. At least in boot camp, you had a stall around you and a bit of privacy.
