Triplanetary - E. E. Smith (phonics reader TXT) 📗

any small thing which I should be told in order to be of greatest use?” Livius asked.

“Several. The prisons and the pits are so crowded with Christians that they die and stink, and a pestilence threatens. To mend matters, some scores of hundreds of them are to be crucified here tomorrow.”

“Why not? Everyone knows that they are poisoners of wells and murderers of children, and practitioners of magic. Wizards and witches.”

“True enough.” Patroclus shrugged his massive shoulders. “But to get on, tomorrow night, at full dark, the remaining hundreds who have not been crucified are to be⁠—have you ever seen sarmentitii and semaxii?”

“Once only. A gorgeous spectacle, truly, almost as thrilling as to feel a man die on your sword. Men and women, wrapped in oil-soaked garments smeared with pitch and chained to posts, make splendid torches indeed. You mean, then, that⁠ ⁠… ?”

“Aye. In Caesar’s own garden. When the light is brightest Nero will ride in parade. When his chariot passes the tenth torch our ally swings his knife. The Praetorians will rush around, but there will be a few moments of confusion during which we will go into action and the guards will die. At the same time others of our party will take the palace and kill every man, woman, and child adherent to Nero.”

“Very nice⁠—in theory.” The Bithynian was frankly skeptical. “But just how are we going to get there? A few gladiators⁠—such champions as Patroclus of Thrace⁠—are at times allowed to do pretty much as they please in their free time, and hence could possibly be on hand to take part in such a brawl, but most of us will be under lock and guard.”

“That too, has been arranged. Our allies near the throne and certain other nobles and citizens of Rome, who have been winning large sums by our victories, have prevailed upon our masters to give a grand banquet to all gladiators tomorrow night, immediately following the mass crucifixion. It is going to be held in the Claudian Grove, just across from Caesar’s Gardens.”

“Ah!” Livius breathed deep; his eyes flashed. “By Baal and Bacchus! By the round, high breasts of Isis! For the first time in years I begin to live! Our masters die first, then and there⁠ ⁠… but hold⁠—weapons?”

“Will be provided. Bystanders will have them, and armor and shields, under their cloaks. Our owners first, yes; and then the Praetorians. But note, Livius, that Tigellinus, the Commander of the Guard, is mine⁠—mine alone. I, personally, am going to cut his heart out.”

“Granted. I heard that he had your wife for a time. But you seem quite confident that you will still be alive tomorrow night. By Baal and Ishtar, I wish I could feel so! With something to live for at last, I can feel my guts turning to water⁠—I can hear Charon’s oars. Like as not, now, some toe-dancing stripling of a retiarius will entangle me in his net this very afternoon, and no mercy signal has been or will be given this day. Such is the crowd’s temper, from Caesar down, that even you will get ‘Pollice verso’ if you fall.”

“True enough. But you had better get over that feeling, if you want to live. As for me, I’m safe enough. I have made a vow to Jupiter, and he who has protected me so long will not desert me now. Any man or any thing who faces me during these games, dies.”

“I hope so, sin⁠ ⁠… but listen! The horns⁠ ⁠… and someone is coming!”

The door behind them swung open. A lanista, or master of gladiators, laden with arms and armor, entered. The door swung to and was locked from the outside. The visitor was obviously excited, but stared wordlessly at Patroclus for seconds.

“Well, Iron-heart,” he burst out finally, “aren’t you even curious about what you have got to do today?”

“Not particularly,” Patroclus replied, indifferently. “Except to dress to fit. Why? Something special?”

“Extra special. The sensation of the year. Fermius himself. Unlimited. Free choice of weapons and armor.”

“Fermius!” Livius exclaimed. “Fermius the Gaul? May Athene cover you with her shield!”

“You can say that for me, too,” the lanista agreed, callously. “Before I knew who was entered, like a fool, I bet a hundred sesterces on Patroclus here, at odds of only one to two, against the field. But listen, Bronze-head. If you get the best of Fermius, I’ll give you a full third of my winnings.”

“Thanks. You’ll collect. A good man, Fermius, and smart. I’ve heard a lot about him, but never saw him work. He has seen me, which isn’t so good. Both heavy and fast⁠—somewhat lighter than I am, and a bit faster. He knows that I always fight Thracian, and that I’d be a fool to try anything else against him. He fights either Thracian or Samnite depending upon the opposition. Against me his best bet would be to go Samnite. Do you know?”

“No. They didn’t say. He may not decide until the last moment.”

“Unlimited, against me, he’ll go Samnite. He’ll have to. These unlimiteds are tough, but it gives me a chance to use a new trick I’ve been working on. I’ll take that sword there⁠—no scabbard⁠—and two daggers, besides my gladius. Get me a mace; the lightest real mace they’ve got in their armory.”

“A mace! Fighting Thracian, against a Samnite?”

“Exactly. A mace. Am I going to fight Fermius, or do you want to do it yourself?”

The mace was brought and Patroclus banged it, with a two-handed roundhouse swing, against a stone of the wall. The head remained solid upon the shaft. Good. They waited.

Trumpets blared; the roar of the vast assemblage subsided almost to silence.

“Grand Champion Fermius versus Grand Champion Patroclus,” came the raucous announcement. “Single combat. Any weapons that either chooses to use, used in any way possible. No rest, no intermission. Enter!”

Two armored figures strode toward the center of the arena. Patroclus’ armor, from towering helmet down, and including the shield, was of dully-gleaming steel, completely bare of ornament. Each