Portensia

The people filed in to take their seats. This was not the Coliseum, much smaller than that in fact, a miniature wooden stadium surrounding a sand-filled pit. A temporary enclosure, erected to showcase the fighters owned by the famous traveling gladiator-master and merchant, Popus Popillius. A grown man could walk across this arena in under fifty strides, and the lowest seats were only a man’s height above the sand; close enough to the action that if one chose to sit there one could expect to be splattered with the gruesome mementos of the fight—blood and sweat.

Portensia followed her father up the rickety wooden stairs to the open balcony that had been reserved for them. Senator Scipio the Elder was no mere plebe, and could not afford to sully his image by mingling with the common folk down in the stands. But that is where Portensia would have preferred to sit, there amongst the common people, joyously enjoying the day, drinking wine and picking from the various foods the vendors were hawking in their shrill voices.

However that would never do. Although Popillius’ raucous shows were somewhat in vogue amongst the equestrian classes in Rome at the moment, a Senator and his entourage could hardly sit side-by-side with a butcher, baker or beggar. So they allowed themselves to be escorted to a sequestered booth high up in the stands, an area reserved for Popillius’ most distinguished guests, and at whose expense he no doubt made a handsome profit.

Portensia and her father took their seats as their attendants filed in behind them, standing in the spaces behind the cushioned divans that had been set up for the Senator and his guests.

Portensia could tell that her attendants were as excited to see the show as the people in the stands. When Seleucus, the major domo, had made it known in the house, that escorts and attendants would be required, to accompany Elder Scipio to Popillius’ spectacle, he had set off a frenzy of bickering and politicking. Every servant and slave of sufficient rank had petitioned to be allowed to attend upon the master on that day. Popillius’ shows were notorious in Rome. They were not so much gladiatorial combat as circus performances. Popus, a cunning salesman, had discovered that the people of Rome wanted not to see death, so much as to be entertained.

Yes there was the requisite mortal combat, the maimings and violence, but there was also pomp and theatre. There was song and dance, clowns and strange animals. There were even staged bouts where the fighters went through practiced motions, flamboyantly waving their weapons and somersaulting in ways that would get them killed in a real fight. The other gladiator-masters scorned Popillius, but there was no denying that Popus’ fights always played to a full house. And every season he sold twice as many gladiators, of half the fighting ability, and at twice the prices, to aristocrats who became enamored of the “fighting skills” of his men, and purchased them as bodyguards.

Popus’ stable of fighters suffered the least casualties and maimings amongst all the gladiator houses, which certainly helped his profits. Somehow he managed to stage an entertainment and display, without diminishing his stock, a skill which the other gladiator-masters simultaneously envied and hated him for possessing.

Popus was a master showman, and on this day the preliminary entertainment had already begun. A group of small boys, each oiled and naked except for a colored sash tied around his waist, were let loose in the ring. The boys ran in a mob to the raised wooden stage at one end of the arena, which served as Popus’ announcement platform, and there received instruction from the man himself.

Popus, a short rotund man with sagging jowls and a shiny bald pate, stood upon the platform and announced in a booming voice, “Witness my fellow citizens of Rome, the youngest warriors in my stable. They are small but already brave and skilled. Each has been recruited from your districts to represent you.”

Popus then called out the colors for each district, and as he did a cry went up from the stands, as the people from each locality acknowledged their appointed champions. “Green for Janiculum. Red for Aventinus. Yellow for Coelius. White for Palatinus…”

Shouts rang out from the crowd.

“Janiculum Triumphus!”

“Janiculum produces eunuchs, Aventinus Triumphus!”

“No, our boy is the best of the lot, Palatinus Triumphus!”

Popus stood above it all, basking in the cheery enthusiasm of the crowd. “Citizens,” he said, “I give you now the sacred hare, the symbol of Juno’s blessing this year.” And with that he plucked from the hands of a waiting slave, a hare which was pure white (our dyed to appear so).

“Which district will have Juno’s fortune this year!” shouted Popus as he threw the hare into the arena. And with that the chase began. The crowd roared encouragements as the mob of children ran after the terrified hare.

“Get the little bastard!”

“For Aventinus!”

“Let go of our lad, you little Janiculum whoreson!”

But the oiled boys were unable to get a grip on the hare or each other, and ended up in knotted piles of limbs, while the hare ran nimbly away from them, sometimes only a hands width away from its pursuers. Each time there was a near-miss, however, the crowd went mad with excitement.

Finally though the animal was caught, and torn into bloody pieces by the many hands of the mob. Each child then proudly brandished some small part of the dismembered animal. No doubt this was the outcome expected by Popus, who smiled broadly and proclaimed, “Fortune will touch you all this year!” as cheers went up in the stands. To reward the urchins, Popus threw handfuls of dried fruit and coins to them.

By then Portensia and her father had settled in, and had been served Popillius’ barely drinkable complimentary wine. Senator Scipio, had not enjoyed the display with the hare and soon he voiced his growing irritation, “Where is Drachus? He is late as usual. One would think that the leader of the opposition senators would have some sense of punctuality and propriety, but one can expect little else from one with base Gaulish blood in his veins.”

“Be patient father. See now the fighters are coming in. Don’t worry, Senator Drachus will join us shortly I’m sure,” said Portensia.

“Bah, the man has no sense of propriety. At this rate he won’t be here for the first blood,” said the Elder Scipio.

Portensia made soothing sounds to placate her father, but inside she was distracted by her own thoughts. She looked to her left where her attendant, Aula, was standing, watching the proceedings in the ring.

Feeling her mistress’s eyes on her, Aula turned to look at Portensia. “What is it mistress? Shall I run to one of the vendors and bring you some of that salted calamari? I remember you used to love it as a little girl. Shall I bring you some?” she asked.

“No Aula,” said Portensia, forcing her eyes back to the arena, “I require nothing at the moment.”

But the unease was still there. Only a day before Aula had come to her with a letter, saying “I met a soldier from Gaul in the market today, my lady. I recognized him from the men your brother brought with him the last time he visited. The man gave me a letter for you, and claims it is from your brother. He instructed me to tell no one else about it, and he says if you need to speak to him then to send word for Echus in the tanners’ district. He says he cannot come to the house, as it is watched. But honestly my lady, he seemed half-mad and starved, so I don’t know what to think.”

Portensia had known something of the strange occurrences on the Empire’s frontiers, but it had been just a smattering, the little she could glean from her father’s papers and reports. Cornelius’ letter on the other hand revealed much more. But rather than clarifying the picture, the information only clouded things further.

Portensia had considered for a moment ignoring her brother’s advice, and taking the information directly to her father. If Cornelius was in danger of execution, then perhaps Scipio the Elder could move quickly enough to save his son. But watching her father in his irritation, Portensia knew she had made the right decision to keep her own counsel. Senator Scipio was not the man he used to be--a proud leader of the majority faction. Over the last year he had lost his influence slowly, as one ally after another had abandoned his party to join with the Neo Optimates, the party of Senator Drachus Secundinus.

Now Senator Scipio was reduced to this, meeting with his political opponent, Senator Secundinus, in public, in a forum for low-class entertainment, in the hopes of negotiating some sort of compromise before his own party, the Triari, was made completely irrelevant in the Senate. It was the act of a desperate man, and Senator Scipio knew it, and it galled him that it had come to this.

“What has become of the Romans? How can they kowtow to these imbeciles in the Neo Optimates? What is this fascination for war in the north? We have not even consolidated our gains in Syria, and these fools would march our boys even further into the Vandal lands. And for what? The place is a gods-forsaken frozen wasteland, but they want to spill Roman blood to conquer it! They will bankrupt the empire with their idiotic schemes. ” said the Senator Scipio.

“Father please, Senator Secundinus will be here at any moment,” said Portensia.

“Early or late, just the same, the man is an idiot. But a successful idiot, that much I must give him.” Said Scipio the Elder.

Just then a slave came into their balcony to announce Secundinus’ arrival. “The esteemed Senator Secundinus Drachus and his wife Vibia beg your permission to join you on this auspicious day.”

Portensia and her father stood then to receive their guests. Senator Drachus was a tall gaunt man who smiled very little, while his wife Vibia was almost the exact opposite; a woman of tremendous girth, who smiled joyously at everything, and embraced Portensia with genuine affection. Portensia and Vibia had been playmates when they were children.

“Oh Portensia I have missed you!” said Vibia.

“And I have missed you, Vibia.” Said Portensia, kissing the plump woman on her cheek. “Come sit with me sister,” said Portensia, leading her guest to a divan.

Meanwhile the Senators greeted each other with more restraint.

“Come Secundinus, shall we sit? Let us see what spectacle Popillius has for us this year,” said Senator Scipio, indicating the divan beside his own.

“These vulgar displays do not become men of our rank,” said Secundinus, “But my wife enjoys them, so I relent for her sake.”

“And I for my daughter’s,” said Senator Scipio, smiling thinly.
In the arena the first fight was already underway. This was a bout between a tall red-haired Gaul and a dark-haired Spaniard. The Gaul had a trident and a net, while the Spaniard had a small buckler and a legionnaire’s sword.

The men circled each other cautiously. The Gaul made occasional thrusts with his Trident, but the Spaniard easily deflected these with his buckler.

Suddenly the Gaul bellowed and rushed the Spaniard with his trident held stiffly before him. The Spaniard deftly side-stepped and struck his opponent on his helmet as he passed. The blow, metal on metal, rang like a bell in the arena, and the crowd cheered loudly.

Portensia smiled to herself. Popus had trained his fighters well. It was clear to her that this fight was staged, but looking out at the crowd it didn’t seem like the people realized this, or if they did, they did not care.

Vibia exclaimed, “Oh my, that was close. I do hope the Spaniard wins. Those Gauls are such a horrible people.”

Portensia simply smiled in reply, but wondered to herself if Vibia knew of her husband’s Gaulish blood.

In the ring the fighters were circling again, but by now Portensia had lost interest, and was trying to eavesdrop on the conversation between the Senators.

“Drachus, you must understand that the Senate, and for that matter the legions, will never agree to your plan. There is nothing for us north of the Rhine. We have yet to consolidate our newest conquests, so why extend ourselves further?” said Senator Scipio. “And I do not understand, what could you possibly have to gain from such a scheme?”

“Senator, do you think I will sit here and explain myself to you in this place?” said Senator Drachus. “Come now, there is plenty of time to discuss these matters later. Let us try and enjoy this day, shall we.”

“Very well Secundinus,” said Senator Scipio, “But I hope you will accommodate me at some later time.”

“Why don’t you and your daughter join Vibia and I for dinner tonight,” said Drachus, smiling broadly.

Scipio the Elder was visibly irritated. Having to kowtow to this man, who only a couple years before was merely a junior Senator, was no doubt infuriating. But Senator Scipio always chose his fights carefully, and Portensia knew he would not give in to his emotions.

“Very well,” her father said, “Portensia and I will be honored to be your guests tonight. I presume you will find your own home a suitable place to discuss our business.”

“Of course, Senator Scipio. Now come, let us see what other farces this man Popus has for us,” said Drachus.

By now the fight between the Gaul and Spaniard had come to an end. The Spaniard had managed somehow to “disarm” his larger opponent, but he gallantly spared his adversary, and the crowd, pleased by the men’s kinetic display, cheered anyway.

In this way Popillius had once again managed to please his audience without seriously injuring any of his expensive fighters. But now the mood of the crowd was changing. The people were ready to see some blood and death, and Popus read their desires as a savant reads a scroll.

He again addressed his crowd. “Citizens, witness now the greatest fighter Rome has ever seen. A man of such strength and speed that we are tempted to call him a beast not a man. He is from a tribe deep in Germanica. His people gave him up as a child, to be raised by bears. Hunters slew his adopted family, and captured him. But he revenged himself upon them, and slew their entire caravan. Then our brave legions captured him, and brought him to me. I have domesticated him, and focused his killing skills. And now here today he will show you why he is called Ursa, The Bear!”

And with that a dark giant of a man leaped into the ring. Looking at him, Portensia realized he was no more from Germanica than she was. He looked to be an Etruscan, although a large one. His hair was long and matted, as was his beard, and about his shoulders was a large brown bearskin. Popillius was not a subtle man apparently. Since the man was called Ursa—The Bear—so Popus ensured he appeared bear-like, in a manner most direct. Popillius’ instinct for theatre was infallible, and already a hush of awe descended on the crowd.

Ursa carried with him only an axe. A weapon so large that fighting a fake bout with it would be impossible, as you could not temper a blow with it. Swung with force it would no doubt split a man in half.

Ursa stood in the middle of the ring and waited, his axe held two-handed before him.

Another gladiator entered the ring. For him though, there was no announcement from Popus. His purpose was clear to everyone—he was there to fight and die. And it seemed even he knew it, for Portensia noticed the man swaying slightly on his feet. No doubt Popus had sent the man in drunk or drugged, to defeat his fear of death.

The newcomer was armed as the Spaniard was, with a buckler and a legionnaire’s sword. He stood at one end of the arena for a short time, either to gather his wits or courage, then he began circling Ursa, but did so at a respectful distance.

Ursa for his part showed the man complete disdain, refusing even to turn to face the man as he walked around him.

The man took advantage of this and positioned himself directly behind Ursa, but still at a distance of ten paces or more from him. Still Ursa did not move.

The man stood there then for a long while coming to some sort of resolution. Perhaps at this point he actually began to have some hope of victory, after all his opponent was facing directly away from him, exposing his vulnerable back. All it would take would be one quick cut with the sword, and the great Ursa would be crippled or dead.

The man sprinted for Ursa, his sword raised to deliver a mortal blow to the giant’s back.

In a flash Ursa hefted his axe and spun with it outstretched. The blow was perfectly timed, and the man with the sword ran directly into Ursa’s swinging axe. His head, severed from his shoulders, flew in an arc and landed in the sand. His torso, still with its forward momentum, walked a couple steps further, and then collapsed twitching.

Portensia was disgusted, but she had seen such sights many times before, and so she was able to contain her revulsion, and applauded politely. But beside her, Vibia was enjoying the show tremendously.

“Oh Husband, he is wonderful! We must buy him. He shan’t feel safe until we have a man like that guarding our home.” She exclaimed.

Senator Drachus merely smiled and nodded.

But the show was far from over. Popus threw in two more hapless gladiators—no doubt the oldest and least skilled men in his stable. Ursa dispatched them both as efficiently as the first. One he cut in half with a single blow, and the other he beat senseless with the shaft of his weapon.

The crowd applauded each execution. They were executions, Portensia saw that now, not fights between equals, but condemned men being sent to their deaths.

Ursa himself stood emotionless after each fight, always in the very center of the arena, and always with his axe held two-handed before him.

Finally Popus announced, “Now I will declare Ursa the champion of this arena, but as is customary, I must allow any challengers to enter and dispute this claim.” Again a hush descended on the crowd. They looked around to see if there were any challengers, but of course, after Ursa’s bloody display, there were none.

“Very well,” said Popus, “Since there are no challengers willing to fight simply for the honor, then perhaps they will fight for Juno’s gold!” And with that he threw a small bag into the ring. “There are one hundred sestertii and one gold Aureus in that bag. If any has the courage to face Ursa, the money is yours!”

Portensia knew this was pure theatre. To a common man, the money was a small fortune, but facing Ursa was suicide for any but a trained soldier. However a trained soldier would have no desire to risk his neck against an opponent like Ursa. There were easier ways to make money in Rome, if one had a good sword-arm.

“Very well then,” boomed Popus, “If there are no challengers, I declare Ursa…”
But he was interrupted by the shouting of the crowd.

“Wait look there!”

“By Pluto, is the man insane? He’ll be killed by that monster.”

“Brother its not worth the money, get off the sand!”

When Portensia looked to where the crowd was pointing, she saw that a man had jumped into the ring. Like Ursa, this man had a bearskin across his shoulders, but there the resemblance ended.

Whereas Ursa was large, muscled and dark, the newcomer was lithe and sinewy, and the color of chalk. From a distance, Portensia could see the man was an albino. So startling was his appearance that Portensia wondered if this was yet more of Popus’ theatre. But when she looked at the gladiator-master, she could see by the shock on his face that he was as surprised as any one else in the arena.

But Popus, ever the showman, recovered quickly. “Citizens, we have a challenger! What is your name brother?”

But the Albino did not answer. He merely discarded his bearskin, revealing his alabaster torso. A murmur went through the crowd. Even from a distance, Portensia could see that the man’s body was covered, completely, with crisscrosses of scars. One scar in particular, a large one across the man’s belly, was confounding. Had the man been disemboweled? And if so, how did he survive to live with the scar?

If Ursa was as shocked as the crowd he did not show it. He stood motionless as ever in the center of the arena.

“Brother, if you will not give me your name, then we will begin the fight,” said Popus. “Bring the man a weapon.”

A sword and a buckler were tossed down to the Albino. He took only the sword and left the buckler lying in the sand.

Ursa stood implacable as ever in the center of the ring.

The Albino, with his sword held at his side, walked calmly towards the giant. Portensia wondered at the composure of the Albino. It was as though he was walking forward to merely embrace the giant in greeting, not fight him to the death.

Ursa too was visibly disturbed by this unnatural calm. For the first time he took a couple of involuntary steps backward, and raised his axe in readiness.

But the Albino continued to move forward, calm as ever, till he was just outside the swinging range of Ursa’s axe, then he stopped.

Portensia could see the Albino’s lips moving, he said something to the giant, but it was too far away for her to hear what he said.

Then it was over. Though Portensia had been looking directly at the two fighters, she could not be certain exactly what happened. At one instant the two men had been facing each other, Ursa with his axe at the ready, and the Albino with his sword held loosely at his side. The next instant the Albino was standing over the giant, who had collapsed on the ground.

It had looked as though the Albino had rushed forward and struck the giant on his temple with his sword hilt, but the man had moved so fast he had been a blur. Ursa had not had the time to do anything but fall. The crowd did not know what to make of the situation, there was no applause, just shocked silence.

Suddenly Portensia noticed that the Albino was looking directly at them. Well not at them, so much as at Senator Drachus. The Albino’s gazed unblinkingly at Secundinus.

Portensia heard Senator Drachus speaking to his guards, “Bring me that man.” The guards shocked as anyone else, took a moment to respond.

In the arena, the Albino put his bearskin around his shoulders again, and retrieving the bag of coins, walked out of the ring.