Penelope's Secrets

Flashback 200 years

The Fist in the Funnel ...

Scythia, another hill.

Spirax had learned some lessons from his previous encounter with the gladiators on the hill. This time, the tactics he conveyed to his lieutentants were, to collect in a massed force all around the attack area, and converge simultaneously. But the gladiators had learnt too, and having had the advantage of choosing this place to fight, they had each come prepared with two sharpened stakes, which they placed pointing outwards to slow the first attack. Spirax had shuddered inwardly on first seeing these stakes, but to his men, they represented nothing more than pointy sticks to be avoided.

When the first attack wave hit, it almost looked as if Spirax's tactics would succeed. The first attackers swept past the stakes, but then, they met fierce resistance. Some of the gladiators were killed in this encounter, but when the leading soldiers fell it became clear that numbers alone did not give the hoped for advantage. The fallen blocked the clear space between the stakes. Then the advantage turned to the defenders, who could pick off their attackers in single combat.

"There must be no retreating," Spirax had said. That sounded clear enough when he was giving his orders before the battle. The surgeons had been able to reach him before he had lost too much blood. The stump of his right wrist, and the publicly invisible but worse injury to his manhood hardly hurt at all, because he had been liberally dosed with "Numb pain" which also made him feel slightly disconnected. But the fire of his hatred burned strongly within, and he watched the proceedings with great interest from a shaded couch set outside his patched up tent, flanked by the Etruscan ambassador and his uncle Glotrix.

The latter was sipping his wine. Family honour and revenge were at stake here, and he had insisted that Spirax should retain command despite his wounds. The full details of the frying pan incident were not common knowledge to the men in the ranks, who, in any case, assumed that their leaders were a race apart who could buy the best medical treatment and recover from wounds that would kill lesser men. That was a useful myth which had more than a grain of truth at its core.

The ambassador was perched on the edge of his seat, his goblet clenched tight with excitement. There was a great swirl of confusion and, at first, little could be seen past the compressed pack of attacking bodies. Then, like the ripples on a pond, when a stone is thrown in, the direction of the bodies turned and expanded outward again from the centre.

"No" groaned Spirax. "No retreating. My orders were clear..."

"Yes..." said the ambassador, as if savouring a tasty morsel in a world of his own.

The cause of the ripple soon became clear to all those seated, as a tornado of cutting metal seemed to fly out after the retreating attackers. One man with two swords like a whirling dervish. At his side, the sweeping scyther of men with the two handed battle axe. Wherever these two demons appeared, men fell like so much cut grass. Those behind them, turned and fled.

Spirax reluctantly ordered the signal for retreat to be sounded, and when his lieutentants came back to the tent for a conference, he noticed that all were wounded. Two had cuts or dents in their armour, but one had some fingers missing, a condition to which he seemed oblivious until the ambassador gave him a handkerchief to stop him dripping blood everywhere. Spirax smiled at the thought that a small amount of blood, close up, was obviously more distracting to the ambassador than a large amount at a remove.

"Our tactics need to change" said Spirax, stating the obvious. "Any suggestions?"

The lieutentants were too battered to suggest anything. The ambassador broke the awkard silence.

"If I may make a suggestion?" he purred in the smooth oily tone of one whose weapon is his voice. Spirax nodded.

"By all means..."

"I'm not a soldier..." appealing with to the young lieutenants as part of his wider audience "but it seems to me that when your forces, I mean of course" he corrected himself "...our forces get to the gladiators, then we lose most of the advantages of having a large force because the defenders are packed into a tight space. So our men get in each other's way and can't easily manoeuvre due to the press of men behind. Is that a fair picture?"

He turned to the lieutenant with the bloody hand. Spirax waved his own stump as his assent for an answer.

"Yes, my lord. Another problem is also having to step over the bodies of our own men who have fallen. That slows down fresh attacks."

"That was also the problem we had on the previous hill" Spirax admitted.

"Nevertheless" the ambassador interjected "despite these disadvantages, you have still managed to kill a number of the rebels."

"True" replied the lieutenant "but we have lost three men for every rebel slain."

"What was the ratio at your previous encounter?" the ambassador asked.

"I don't know."

The lieutenant turned again to his commanding officer, Spirax, who frowned in concentration for a few seconds before supplying the answer.

"I suppose if we compared the number of all the rebels estimated slain to our own dead and injured..." He paused. "I would say, it was more like twenty to one."

There was a silence while this sank in. For some strange reason, the ambassador looked pleased at this grim revelation.

"So, the longer we continue to pour men into this confined space, the more we lose?"

Glotrix cut in. "Like pouring wine too quickly into a small funnel?" He exclaimed.

"Precisely!" said the ambassador. Pleased that someone had picked up his line of reasoning.

"If we use your uncle's analogy: you may have seen what happens when the servants decant the wine before a banquet. If they are in a hurry, they pour the wine too quickly, and much of it is spilt. But if they pour more gently, it all goes in with less waste. We have more men to begin with, than the rebels..."

Spirax picked up on this. "So if we attacked in smaller groups, our kill ratio would be better."

"It's just an idea" said the ambassador with false modesty.

"It sounds worth pursuing" Spirax agreed. "Instead of sending our men up in a large force attacking the whole rebel front, we'll split them into groups of five. Let's call it a handful," he said making a joke at his own expense and waving his good hand to demonstrate. "When the first handful goes into attack, another will hang back in readiness. When the first handful is killed, the next will go in, with a reserve in their turn. Each new group will have the advantage of freshness. Although that still leaves the morale problem of for those at the back, who will see the others in front of them getting killed."

"I will offer a prize of ten thousand in gold to the successful handful which kills the last gladiator" chirped in Glotrix.

"That's enough to retire on" observed Spirax surprised by the scale of the offer.

"I'll match it" said the ambassador, who didn't want to be left out at this stage.

"The lieutenants sighed. Misunderstanding, what this might mean, the ambassador asked, "You don't think it's enough?"

"On the contrary, my lord. Our men have been quite happy to throw themselves at the rebels for no more than their standard pay because it's their duty. With such a high reward as the prize they'll be fighting each other for the chance to get up there soonest."

"If we use these new tactics" Spirax said thinking aloud "the kill ratio could change, perhaps even in our favour... If you gentlemen could explain it to your men, it might increase their enthusiasm for the idea knowing that less of them will get killed. As to deciding the order of the attacking handfuls, or should we now call them fists? We'll use more traditional methods..."

The ambassador raised an enquiring eyebrow. Spirax explained.

"In the Scythian army, if we have an unpleasant task to allocate such as a decimation, we draw lots to decide who will be chosen. This will be the first time in military history that we use the method for a positive outcome. In this case to prevent everyone from volunteering at once. If it succeeds, it may get written into the army manual..."

"Let's drink to that" said the ambassador, raising his goblet in a toast.

The new army tactics worked better than expected. With smaller groups of soldiers attacking, the gladiators seemed to lose their earlier discipline, and from time to time, some of them actually ran out from the centre of the stake circle to meet their attackers head on.

There came a time when the bodies of the defenders lay so thickly tangled that they lost the original advantage of their location, and the last five climbed over the wall of their own dead, and strode down the hill to meet the next attacking army fist.

Iron fist after fist hit them hard without stopping. First there were five. Then four, then three, and finally just two gladiators still standing when the last man in an attacking quintuplet fell. A slight pause.. Then, as rehearsed so many times earlier during that day another avenging fistfull of five soldiers charged in to attack.

The ambassador observed that the rebel with the two swords was moving more slowly now. But still his reach meant death. It was iron which broke before the man. Spinning in his deadly dance, his left blade broke as it hit the vambrace on the sword arm of an attacker on the sinister side. He was fighting two men, and before he could turn back again, from what should have been a literally disarming blow, his stunned attacker picked up his dropped sword with both hands and ran the dancer through in his back. But he did not live to claim his reward because at the very next moment his head was swept away from his shoulders by the deadly two handed kiss of the Axe Killer.

Axil was only able to pause long enough to realise that he was the last one still alive. Then the next wave of the fist was on him. They smelt victory and dashed in abandon to meet him like a long lost brother. If this had been the start of the day, there would have been no doubt about the outcome. But Axil was tired, numb beyond endurance. The axe swung once. The lead attacker fell. Then again a swing, and another soldier died. But the axe had stuck and got caught up in this man's collar. It was still attached to the blade on the third swing which consequently did not cut true, but instead bludgeoned the third man unconscious more like a club than an axe. Realising their chance the two remaining attackers moved in together. The first had his face and brain smashed by the iron torc still stuck to the axe head while the other attacker darted in with a sword thrust at Axil's leg before backing away. The Axe Killer was down, but he was still dangerous. He threw away his now useless axe and pulled out his dagger, smiling as he remembered the last time he had sliced meat with it.

"You're worth a farm to me, and a life of ease" the soldier gloated, while circling warily.

"You aren't worth shit to me" replied Axil, and threw his dagger which went through his taunter's throat. Axil was losing a lot of blood now and he was almost unconscious when the next group of soldiers reached him. He could hardly see them, and he didn't care any more. His last thought was that Spartak's plan had worked. And so he was smiling even as the five swords pierced him for the first time. Then again and again the swords went in until long after the smile had lost its living glow.

It wouldn't make any difference to the reward but each man wanted his own sword bloodied to the hilt. After nearly a minute of frenzied thrusting the attackers broke off, regarded each other and grinned. None of them had a scratch. It was almost too easy. Then there was a quiet groan from the soldier who had been stunned earlier by Axil's ruined axe blow. Four of them moved together to block the view to the onlookers below. Sharing among five was one thing. Sharing among six was unnecessary. This was agreed without words. Swipe... The groaning stopped.

The instructions to all the men had been clear. If you are in the lucky handful which kills the last gladiator, you will locate the bodies of the man with two swords (Spartak) and also the Axe Killer (Axil), and return to the captain's pavilion with their heads in an unmutilated condition. Despite the mountain of dead it didn't take long to round up the trophies.

The Axe Killer was easy since he had been the last gladiator to die, and they had witnessed his famous companion's end from only a short distance.

"This must be him" said one of them, pointing to the darkly dressed body which lay face down, and then rolling it over with his foot to double check it had indeed two scabbards. "Doesn't look so scary now."

"Careful how you cut it" said another holding his own trophy. "We want to make sure he's recognizable. Remember these heads are worth more than their weight in gold."

"If his face wasn't so prickly I'd be happy to kiss it" said the other, as he cradled the now loose head in his arms.

Although every other man in the camp would be envious as hell, there was also relief that the fighting was all over, and they were greeted by cheers on their return down the hill. They walked tall. Twenty thousand in gold was enough for each man to buy a small farm or tavern, and half of it would be in Etruscan which was purer and worth more than native Scythian. They were smiling when they reached the couch where Spirax, Glotrix and the Etruscan ambassador were seated. Spirax gestured for his servants to fill five more goblets of wine. This was the moment he been looking forward to.

"Show me the heads" he commanded. "The Axe Killer first."

One of them held out his arm. A pale ball hanging from a grisly matted scalp. From somewhere a cloud of flies settled and began to explore. Spirax was almost shaking with rage when he saw Axil's face which had loomed over him so very recently. But the head's owner was beyond further harm and even now seemed to mock him.

"I want Axil's head crushed to a pulp and his brain juices preserved in a jar of flies. If we find any of these gladiators left alive they can eat the maggoty remains before they are tortured to death."

"A nice touch" commented the ambassador sipping some more wine.

"Now show me the other." He knew this head would have to be preserved and probably sent to the emperor as a souvenir of restored order.

There was a long silence when the soldier with the other head help out his trophy for inspection. After a few minutes his arm began to ache. Glotrix and Spirax exchanged a pucliar look but said nothing. The ambassador didn't know what to make of this. After what seemed like an interminable silence he broke it.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked.

The looks of uncle and nephew suggested that something was indeed very, very wrong.

"Are you sure there's no mistake?" queried Glotrix. "You're sure this is the head of the man with the two swords?"

The soldier relaxed and smiled.

"Quite sure, my lord. We all checked the body and we were close enough to see the fighting anyway. He twirled it round by the hair. It's a bit messed up, and might need some cleaning. Could probably do with a shave..."

"I saw Spartak close up not four days ago. I spoke to him. That thing!" said Spirax pointing a trembling finger accusingly "is not the head of Spartak."

Glotrix confirmed. "I was once his patron. That was a few years ago of course, but I agree. The two swords, yes that seemed like Spartak from a distance. But the face is different. For one thing, I remember Spartak was always quite fastidious. Always clean shaven. I remember in one very long contest which went on all day, he was fighting with one sword while shaving calmly with the other. Annoyed the hell out of the other gladiators. The crowd loved it. Very strange ideas he had even then, and that was before he became a rebel. I'm sorry. I have to agree with my nephew. That head is definitely not the head of Spartak the gladiator."

"Then who is he?" asked the ambassador.

The five soldiers now looked completely deflated. Spirax was still staring at the head, as if willing it to transform. The ambassador now spoke. This was getting quite interesting.

"If that head does not belong to Spartak, then we must assume that there has been an elaborate hoax to make us all think otherwise. Correct?"

"Agreed."

"Why would the rebels do such a thing? Why split their forces when they stood a better chance of staying together?"

Suddenly recognition dawned. Spartak was also well known for his strange tactics. In his prime in the games, killing was not enough for him. He liked to play games. Spirax called out to his new aid de camp.

"Count the rebel bodies and bring any wounded here immediately for questioning. And get the torture ready prepared."

Most of the rebel wounded were already dead of their wounds or from the passing sword thrusts of soldiers collecting trophies, but one tough old bird had been missed and was still alive. He was too feeble to stand so he was propped up between two guards and dragged to where Spirax was seated. Spirax told the servants to give the wounded gladiator a drink to revive him while he watched the torture implements and brasier being prepared.

"Listen to me, rebel scum" he said, trying to sound reasonable. "If you give me the answer to one simple question you can have a quick clean death and avoid the torture which by law you deserve."

The old rebel cackled.

"So you haven't found him yet?"

This was a lucky surprise. Spirax hadn't expected the rebel to admit even this much without considerable pain.

"All I want to know is - where is Spartak?"

This was the old rebel's last chance to inflict pain on his enemy, and he savoured the moment while considering the best way to reply.

"My lord, as to your promise of a quick death, I thank you for the kind offer, and I wish I could believe it. But I will tell you what you want to know anyway. You asked where is Spartak? But he is not alone. There's nothing you can do about it now, and you'll find out soon enough when you get back home, if you find anything left at home when you get back, that is" he cackled again.

"The palace?"

"Our leader Axil said, that if after the battle, any of us survived, we should give a message to the army commander Spirax...."

"I am he."

The rebel took a deep breath and spluttered into a cough. Then recovering, his breath he lifted his head up and did his best to look defiant. He hoped he would remember his lines. He didn't expect to get a second chance at this. Shame there was no one he knew, here to see this performance. Spartak and Barrak had spent more than an hour improving the form of Axil's original starker message.

"This is a message from Axil, also known as the "Axe Slayer", to the army commander Spirax. From the man with no life to the man with no balls, greetings! In thanks for the perfidious treatment which the Scythian nobles meted out to our families we have made provision to introduce new blood into your corrupt system. You will find on your return to the capital all noblemen and their heirs killed or gelded. That will end their line. But to help the next generation of your royal families get off to a better start with honest blood, we will take especial care in the arrangements we make for handling your noble women and matrons while they are in our care. You will find them alive and well, and robustly seeded gurgh - "

The guards were too slow to stop him. The ambassador, rose as if preparing to question the prisoner. His table knife stabbed into the rebel's throat, upwards to the brain. Then he picked up his fallen serviette and wiped the blade, and also his wrist which had been spattered with blood. The rebel was still propped dead between the two guards who didn't know what they should do. Seeing the look of surprise on everyone's face, the ambassador explained in a matter of fact tone, as he resumed his seat.

"As the emperor's envoy I took it upon myself to despatch this traitor. We've had more than enough fun for one day, and we can't afford the time to stretch things out further." He smiled at his own joke.

"You're right" said Spirax" satisfied that he would not be held responsible for this. "Take that filthy body away."

"I've always wanted to do that" the ambassador confided. "Did you see the look of surprise on his face?"

"And ours too." Spirax motioned to the five soldiers of the final smashing fist, who were still standing around wondering if they had been forgotten. "You may withdraw for a few minutes until we summon you. Don't go far."

When they were out of earshot he turned to his uncle. "We need to race back to the capital as quickly as possible, but what are we going to do about the rewards?"

The ambassador was in a good humour. "I think that man was only bluffing. You'll probably find that Spartak has gone running off in completely the opposite direction. I for one, am more than happy to to reward your men for a good day's work and to offer the same reward again to whoever comes back to us with Spartak's head later. What say you Glotrix?"

Glotrix had gone pale with anger and worry on hearing the rebel's words. But what the ambassador said made sense, and sounded more reassuring.

"You're right of course. Must think about the morale of the troops and all that, eh? I'll make arrangements immediately to pay these five fine men. They'll be welcome to stay on for a bit if they want the chance to collect more. I'll also match your amount for Spartak's head. I suppose that old rebel would have said anything to get us all riled up, so he could get a quick death. What do you think Spirax?"

"I'm sorry he died so quickly... "

Mistaking his point, and not wishing to upset the ambassador, Glotrix cut in.

"Well you did make a promise, even if he was only a rebel..."

"No, not that old fool. I meant Axil."

"Well there's something we can all agree on."

"Cheer up" said the ambassador. "We still have the chance to capture Spartak alive. I'd increase the bounty for that."

"This is turning into quite an expensive mission for you my lord" said Spirax.

"I feel as though I've been royally well entertained since I arrived on Scythia, and I don't begrudge a penny of it. I would probably have spent more moeny if it wasn't for your rebels, and we were all sitting back in the capital having balls and arranging games."

Spirax smiled, there was a lot of truth in that. "Bring those five men back in. We'll have a celebration in their honour tonight, then start on the wild goose chase back to the capital tomorrow. I agree with you, we're unlikely to find Spartak there, but we've been running around the countryside long enough, and it's a good excuse for us to get back to civilization for a bit. And with that new reward we might have some new pleasures to look forward to when some shepherd or remote regional patrol finally brings him in."

More wine was summoned, and as Glotrix had observed earlier, in the rush to fill new jugs, some of it was spilled. But instead of rebuking the servants, Glotrix and the ambassador laughed to see how accurate their theory had been, and how well the new tactics had worked. Today's events had shown that sometimes old men could still help out the youngsters with a few good ideas.

Spirax was pleased that they would be heading back to the capital next day, because his uncle had assured him that the old stories he'd heard as a cadet about which parts could be repatched or replaced by the surgeons on New Rome were wrong.

"Maybe a few hundred years ago they couldn't grow your balls back, but you'd be surprised what they can do now. Especially for someone like you who's just put down a rebellion, and comes from a good family. The coffers aren't empty yet my boy, even though your men may be impressed with the rewards we've been offering today. I've sometimes spent more than that betting on a horse. And I'm sure the ambassador will put in a good word to make sure you get the best surgeon there is, maybe even one who works for the emperor. That ambassador's turned out to be a better man than I expected. Most of the diplomats we've had before have been imbeciles. With this one, we could have the makings of a real long term peace. Now stop thinking about those bloody rebels. You're wounded, and you've done your bit now. You'll have to leave Spartak to someone else."

By the time that darkness came and the celebrations were in full swing they had all conveniently put aside any notion that "that old rebel fool" might have been telling the truth after all.