Time gladiator uc, p.1
Time Gladiator (UC), page 1
part #4 of Joe Mauser Series
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Time Gladiator by Mack Reynolds
PART ONE
I
The amphitheater covered an area of some six or seven acres. Overall, it measured slightly more than six hundred feet by five hundred feet, but the arena itself, the fighting arena, was two hundred eighty feet by one hundred seventy. There were comfortable seating facilities for approximately fifty thousand persons, but on an occasion such as this—national games—they could, and did, pack in as many as seventy-five thousand spectators.
There were those who disgustedly contended that the place was just too confoundedly large. That a fan in the upper tiers of seats could hardly make out individuals in the fights below, could certainly not follow the more delicate nuances of the combat. Be that as it may, the arena never failed to play to a packed house—a packed and over-packed house. Ultimately, those who were allowed to buy seats were chosen by lottery, and it was figured that you had one chance in a hundred of winning an upper-tier place; one in a thousand of actually getting one along the podium.
This was the final day. The play-off, so to speak. Whether or not the arena had been packed over the past week, it was overflowing today. As he looked up from the shade of the recess behind the Portal of Life, preparatory to the grand parade, Denny wondered briefly how many of those, squeezed tightly in aisles, sitting on steps, jammed into the area supposedly to be utilized exclusively by the band, had got in through bribery or other trickery. He had heard that tickets were being black-marketed. That scalpers were getting as much as a month's income for even upper-tier seats. He had even heard that one brave entrepreneur had forged tickets, a hundred or more of them, all for the same choice seat, one located within a few yards of the Master of the Games, and had made himself a fortune, before, by almost impossible coincidence, approaching the bearer of the real ticket.
Denny was hardly happy about the situation confronting him. He'd had the good luck to survive thus far, he'd had the bad luck to draw the equipment of a Secutor. He was fully aware of the percentage. The cognoscenti would offer odds of five to three in favor of a Retiarius against a Secutor, all other things being equal. And all other things were equal today. Yes, he'd survived the week. Here he was on the last day of the games. That meant a good deal. However, he cast his eyes to right and left, so had all the rest of them lining up for the parade, half of them equipped as Retiarü, half as Secutores.
As a Secutor, his equipment consisted of a breastplate, helmet and armor on his right arm and his left leg, the left arm and right leg were bare for the sake of agility. He bore a shield and a sword and was considerably less mobile than a Retiarius who was equipped solely with a net and a trident. That was where the disadvantage lay, the weight of his armor hampered his mobility.
He cast his eyes back over the rest. Twenty-four of the most excellent physical specimens in the land. Half Secutores, half Retiarü. And within the hour, at least half of them would be either dead or hors de combat as a result of wounds.
The Secutor next to him growled, "When's that confounded band going to begin to play? I'm getting worn out just carrying this tin shop."
A Retiarius behind them laughed. "In that case, I hope we stand here a couple of more hours."
Denny looked at the Secutor who had complained, and recognized him. From time to time, during the week of games, they'd been thrown together. The day there had been a mock battle between the Macedonians and the Persians, they had stood side by side in the Macedonian phalanx. And the day of the chariot fights, the other had taken his charioteer and a good one, too; the casualties taken by both sides that day had been brutal, but they'd managed to survive.
Denny said now. "Last day, Zero. Good luck. I hope you make it."
The other looked at him. It was hard to make out features through the helmet slits. He said, "Denny, eh? Same to you. But it's going to be rugged. The first day and the last day are the worst. That gong won't ring until half of us are sprawled out on the sand, a full half of us."
The band struck up a lilting marching tune. One of the assistants to the Master, said, "All right, lads, let's go. Make this a good one, the crowd wants action."
"Care to join us, you fat funker?" Zero growled at him.
They swung across the sanded arena floor, marching in perfect order, in perfect time to the music, and deployed before the judge's stand and the Master of the Games. He was flanked today by prominent citizens, both male and female, whose polite applause was drowned in the shouts of the multitude in the stands.
The Secutores lifted high their swords, and the Retiarü their tridents and the chant was in perfect unison.
"We who are about to die…"
The Master of the Games gestured with a modishly limp hand, knowing his voice would never penetrate above the yelling, screaming fans in the seats behind, above and to each side of his presiding box. A trumpet sounded, and both band and crowd fell suddenly hush.
A Retiarius Denny vaguely remembered seeing from time to time during the past week, said to him, "All right, friend, let's go. It's going to be a long, long time before that gong sounds and there's no use stalling."
Denny looked at him, "Nobody's stalling, fisherman. Let's see what you can do with that net."
All about them, netmen and Gauls—the popular idiom for Secutores—were squaring off. From the side of his eyes, Denny could already make out a hapless Secutor caught in the meshes of his opponent's net, struggling to extract himself before the other could dispatch him with his sharp three-pronged trident.
Denny shifted his shoulders within the breastplate and shoulder armor of his right arm, and took stronger hold of sword and shield. He sized up his own opponent. The man's name was Philip, something or other; or perhaps that was his last name. He'd won through to the last day of the games, which automatically rated him one of the most efficient fighters in the nation. But, for that matter, it came through to Denny now, with almost a feeling of surprise, so had he, and so, in turn he, too, was one of the most efficient killers in the land.
Unfortunately, in the training he had taken in this particular form of combat, he'd been more inclined to practice as a Retiarius, with net and trident, rather than as the slower moving Secutor. It had been bad luck for him to have been selected to take this part. However, at least he knew all the tricks of the netman's trade and could watch out for them.
And now, Philip was slowly circling him, his net held for the cast. It was of heavy mesh and fringed with small lead weights, so that when thrown it opened up and then settled quickly. It looked innocent enough, as weapons go—and wasn't. How well Denny knew it wasn't. The amateur spectator in the stands, although there were few of those in the amphitheater today, might think the highly armored sword-bearing Secutor was the more satisfactorily equipped of the two, but Denny knew, and so did Philip.
Philip made a tentative cast, but Denny took a quick step backward, catching the edge of the net on his shield and tossing it off. Had he had time, he would have taken a slash at it with his sword. Sometimes it was possible to cut up a Retiarius' net to the point that it became largely useless.
Philip growled, "Come on, fish. Let's get going. You heard what the man said, the crowd wants action."
Denny was too old a hand to exhaust himself chasing his lightly clad opponent. He grinned, shaking his head. "Come in and get me, fishermen. "I'm…"
The other, who seemingly was rearranging his net, suddenly cast it, underhand, and came dashing forward to take immediate advantage of Denny's predicament. The cast had been a perfect one, impossible to avoid.
Denny lashed out wildly with both shield and sword. The mesh was about him in a confusion that he knew from experience could take long desperate moments to get out of, and the Retiarius was coming in fast.
Denny cut wildly at the net, slashing it in several places, even as he tried to stumble backwards. Seconds were precious. If he could just…
The trident darted at him, struck his wrists sharply. In a quick agony of realization, Denny knew that he was lost. He'd dropped his sword. Even as he stumbled back, extricating himself from the net, Philip gave the weapon a kick which sent it spinning away.
And now the other came in for the finish, stalking the unarmed fighter. Philip's lips were pulled back over his teeth, in a killer's snarl, and he muttered, "All right, this is it, friend," as he began his lunge.
Denny stooped suddenly, took up a handful of sand and threw it even before straightening up. It hit the other's eyes, and Philip, not unaware of the desperate trick's usage, tried a quick sidestep, a double sidestep. But Denny was slogging through the sand toward him. Philip slipped, fell to one knee, shook his head, rubbed desperately with his left arm across his bleared eyes.
Denny was on him. He brought the shield down in a crushing rabbit punch across the other's neck.
Without bothering to check whether or not his opponent was dead, Denny, breathing deeply, made his way to where his sword had been kicked, and recovered it.
He took stock. Somewhere in the fight he'd taken two or three minor jabs from the trident. He couldn't remember when, now. In combat, you seldom feel the pain of a wound. The pain comes later—if you survive.
Of the twenty-four men who had marched into the arena a few minutes before, some four or five had already been eliminated from the fray. Ring attendants were hauling two of them out of the Portal of Death.
The fighting h ad spread throughout the whole arena, most individual fights, although in one case two Secutores had combined forces and were fighting back to back against the two netmen who were tormenting them. Two or three fighters, like Denny himself, had dispatched their men, and were standing momentarily alone and uncommitted while recuperating. This wouldn't last long, Denny knew. In short order, the screaming mob in the stands would demand they face each other.
This was the last day of the national games. The final elimination day. This was the day during which the victors of the combats of the week fought it out for the final triumph. There was to be no hanging back, no giving of quarter, no pulling of punches.
As was to be expected, the greater number of those who had been eliminated already, were Secutores. The slower moving swordsmen were proving easy game for the Retiarü. And now, not far from where he had so shortly before terminated his own first fight, Denny caught sight of a fellow Secutor at bay and trying to fight off two netmen at once.
There was nothing against it in the rules. This was a fight of elimination. When, and if, the Retiarü eliminated all the Secutores they would then be obliged to fight it out among themselves, if the gong had failed to sound by that time. Meanwhile, though, so long as the more heavily equipped Secutores continued to survive at all, the Retiarü devoted their efforts to eliminating these easier opponents.
The single swordsman was in a hard way, trying to avoid two nets at once, and the two tridents continually jabbing at him. He had taken his stance fairly near the podium wall so that he could have at least his back secure, but it was a matter of only moments.
It was none of Denny's concern. It was each man for himself, and the sooner others were eliminated, the sooner the gong, the desperately longed for gong, would sound, ending this year's games.
But somehow he found himself plowing, as quickly as he could in his weight of armor, through the sands to the other's succor.
The netmen, intent on their prey and on the immediate brink of success, failed to see him coming up behind.
Their Secutor foe was thrashing wildly, entwined in not one but two nets. He cut desperately, hopelessly, before they could dispatch him with their needle-pointed tridents.
Denny yelled, "Hold on, man!" And was upon them from behind. This was no time for nicety. No time for challenges and gentlemanly fair play. If the two netmen eliminated the Secutor, they would surely turn on Denny in his turn, and he had no doubt about the results of that eventuality.
Both the Retiarü twirled in quick alarm, but Denny's sword leaped forward, in jab rather than slash, and the blade entered one of his foemen's belly, ramming upward. The netman crumbled to the sand, bleeding heavily.
His companion, wide-eyed now, and without his net, ran quickly backward, to reorganize.
The crowd screamed, and Denny looked up at them.
The fallen netman held his hand up in the sign for mercy. Denny knew that if it was awarded him, that the ring attendants could get the man safely to the arena clinic to staunch the flow of blood and save the other's life.
But this was the last day, and the bloodlust was upon them as never before. Was it because there would be no more slaughter the following day, that now they must quaff the cup of death to its dregs? Was it because for the full week this fallen fighter had survived, survived a hundred deaths, and had made it to the finals? Did they find intensity of pleasure in the fact that so near success, he had found defeat?
They screamed their bloodlust, their thumbs jabbing down, down, or some of them inward toward their own vitals, as though gesturing here, here, give it to him here.
There was no doubt about the crowd's desire. Denny looked toward the judge's box, and the Master of the Games made the signal of death. Denny cut the netman's throat, as quickly as possible.
His fellow Secutor had managed to disentangle himself from the two nets. He turned to Denny and chuckled, "Thanks."
It was Zero.
Denny said to him sourly, "Let's polish off this other one, before he gets himself another net."
Zero said, "Oh it's you, Denny. Well, thanks again."
They set upon the remaining Retiarius mercilessly. This was neither time nor place for mercy, nor for anything other than kill or be killed. This was the final day, and all bets were down.
He backed against the wall desperately. Equipped now with only the trident, he jabbed, and again and again. First toward one of them, then the other. Then desperately back again.
They came in from opposing sides, bent forward and a bit low, their shields outstretched to take his thrusts.
He was almost within range of their short swords, when he slipped and fell and the two co-operating swordsmen dashed in to eliminate him. But even as he went down, he thrust wildly and caught Denny in his unprotected thigh.
Zero finished the netman off, and turned quickly to Denny. "How bad did he get you?"
"Pretty bad."
Zero's eyes darted quickly around the arena. There seemed to be more men on the sands than still standing. He grimaced. In the stands, the mob was already screaming frenzied instructions to them.
Denny had dropped to one knee when the trident had first ripped into him. Now he came to his feet again. This was the final day. The day of elimination. There was no wound sufficient to allow you to drop out of the fray. If you went down, the crowd was in no mood for mercy. He had seen the short shift they had given his fallen netman a few moments earlier. If he went down now, it would be the same for him. Thumbs down.
He muttered to Zero, "Well, no gong so far. Let's get over there and see if we can find somebody in worse shape than we are." He tried to grin. "I'm about at the stage where a sixty-year-old dwarf could take me with a slingshot."
Zero said, his voice low, "No. Listen, Denny. You've had it. You can hardly walk. Listen, that gong is about to go. Any minute now. You and I. We'll fight. Right here. We'll fake it until the gong sounds."
The crowd was screaming at them. Demanding they get into action. Demanding blood.
Only briefly, Denny wondered whether or not the other was setting him up for an easy victory. This was no place for gratitude, friendship, or even mercy. The final day of the national games. Dog eat dog. Each man for himself and the devil take the hindmost. He'd saved this Zero fellow from the two netmen, but they were bound by the rules of the arena to fight any comer, and if they failed to do so, the ring attendants themselves would finish them off. But possibly the other was right. Possibly enough of their fellows had been eliminated that the Master of the Games would signal the end. After all, the supposed ultimate purpose was to find the ten most competent combat men in the nation. The Master wouldn't allow it to continue until none survived at all.
"Let's go," Denny said. He shifted his shoulders again in the breastplate, grasped his sword, and advanced his shield and armored left leg. And even as he took his fighting stance, he felt the blood flowing from his thigh, and weakness ebbing up through him.
That portion of the crowd nearest them was screaming hysterically. They had seen the one Secutor rescued from a seemingly impossible situation by the other. Had seen the two combine to eliminate both netmen. Now these two were at swords' points, fighting it out.
Zero, even as he came in, whispered harshly, "Make,this look good as possible, Denny. Make it look good, or they'll see it. Then we're both sunk."
Denny swung at the other, even as he did so, realizing his weakness of arm. It was both the exhaustion of the fighting and the loss of blood. His sword clanged meaninglessly against. Zero's shield, and the crowd shrilled its contempt.
Zero in turn whacked at him, and struck again. He came in closer, so that their movements would be the more difficult for observers to follow.
"Cover, confound it," he growled- "Cover yourself. I could've got past your guard that time."
The mob was howling for the kill now. It was obvious that Denny was faltering. They screamed for Zero to give him the death blow.
Denny muttered, weakly, "I… I'm blacking out… I…"
Zero cut at him twice more in a blur of motion, trying to make it look good, deliberately hitting him upon shield or breastplate. "Stall, Denny. Stall. That gong will go any minute now. Hang on."
