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"What news from the city?" they ask.
"I heard the Etruscan ambassador is coming."
They wave him on, but tell him to be ride carefully through the woods and
avoid low hanging branches, which have unseated some fast despatch riders in
recent days.
Thanking them for their advice he rides on alone into the woods. Luckily he
has always been a good liar. A fact which has saved his skin on more than a few
occasions. If only the events of the last few days weren't true he would be a
lot happier. He has been riding hard for two days, and this is the third horse
he has stolen. The Etruscan ambassador had actually arrived before he left the
city but to reveal that would have been to show the haste of his progress.
Drawn in like a vulture by the rumours of the gladiator revolt the detested
ancient enemy had come to see what was happening with his own eyes. For that
reason there was a need for a public entertainment. But there were no fighting
men remaining in the gladiator compound, because the loyal ones had been sent
away to deal with the rebel Spartak. For that reason alone it had been deemed
expedient for his mother, sister, and all the close kin of the departed
expendable gladiators to be raped, burned or used for target practise to
entertain the visiting dignitary. Scythian standards of hospitality and
entertainment had been upheld. The Etruscan guests had their appetites whetted
and were even able to participate in some of the staged sport.
On the fateful morning of the games when the gladiator quarters were being
cordoned off, little Axil, or "Axilka" had been unconscious in the
dark recesses of the arena stores having drunk half a bottle of stolen brandy.
He didn't know what had happened until it was all over. His companion, the
storekeeper's son had drunk the other half. When the storeman's father found
them that evening instead of getting a good thrashing he was embarrassed to be
hugged.
"I'm so glad you escaped" he said.
Axilka sobered up fast when he found out what had earned this reprieve.
"The governor must be planning a double cross to dare such an outrage.
That story about freeing the gladiators if Spartak is captured must be a lie.
You must get away, and warn your father. Take one of the supply horses. You'll
have to come up with a good story for why you're riding after him, but you'll
think of something."
Axilka remembered all the times in the past when he had used fantastic
stories to explain his absence, an errand undone, or just to see the startled
reaction he would get. Like when he told his mother that his father had been
killed in a brawl, just to deflect attention from an afternoon spent in the
wrong company. He had cried wolf, and lied too often. He always got away with
it, especially with women and older men because of his innocent appearance and
disarming smile. But he was on the short path to ruin. His father had once said
in despair "If there is a road to hell, Atilka won't be satisfied till he's
found the short cut, and then he'll be smuggling lost souls out, for the right
price."
"He won't believe me."
The storeman understood, and nodded.
"You'll need to take proof, just in case. Wait here while I get
something."
He disappeared for a few minutes into the dusty recesses at the back of the
stores, and reappeared holding a gladiator's sword in a rat eaten frayed
leather scabbard. He also held out a soft leather satchel and a deadly pointed
stabbing knife disguised as the handle of a small cooking pot.
"You'll have to leave the sword after you've used it, because you can't
be seen wearing it without questions being asked. But the knife could come in
handy. Take this token," he said reaching into his belt purse "for the
horse. If anyone asks you at the stable, say you're taking it to be used by the
Etruscan party. If anyone asks me tomorrow, which I think unlikely, well I'll
just have to say you stole it."
Axilka didn't think this was the right time to admit that he already had a
good collection of the storeman's tokens, and a pile of silver coins liberated
from drunken revellers by specially adapted dice. The knife would definitely
come in useful. He had an idea about the sword and satchel but didn't want to
say anything.
"It's goodbye then."
Another hug from the old man, and a weak handshake from his wide eyed
friend.
"Good luck Axilka."
"Thanks. I'll need it."
"Take the back way out of the stores, but once you're on horseback
stick to the main roads. It will look less suspicious than if you stray off
them."
Axilka owed the old storeman a favour, so he pulled aside an evil smelling
pile of rotting sacking and revealed his secret side-door entrance which led via
a tunnel into the back of a mature holly hedge by the main arena latrines.
"I always wondered how the rats managed to get past the cats and the
dogs and the poison..."
"Even rats need to live somehow" said Axilka.
He raised his sword in the gladiator's "life" salute, slipped
aside the curtain and was gone.
Father looked at son. Son's eyes widened at the accusation.
"I never knew that's how he got in, honest. Shall we block it up?"
"No, just keep it well hidden, and make sure no-one ever sees you use
it. We might have our own need for a bolt hole one day. When your headache has
gone, you can help me look through the barrels in the cellar. We need to decant
some casks of brandy for the Etruscans, if you and Axilka haven't drunk your way
through it all yet."
The boy went pale and shivered.
"I think the smell will make me sick. I'm never going to drink brandy
again."
"If that's the worst thing that happens to you today, consider yourself
very lucky." |
