Dark eagle iv scarab, p.14
Dark Eagle IV: Scarab, page 14
The fight dragged on, each clash of steel punctuated by the roar of the crowd. Falco struggled to keep pace, his arms growing heavy, his movements sluggish. Darius cut him again and again, small, shallow wounds that bled but didn’t cripple. The Egyptian champion was toying with him, showing the crowd his dominance.
Another swing, another cut. Blood trickled from Falco’s arm. Another lunge, another strike. His shield arm burned with the effort of absorbing blow after blow. Falco’s footing slipped, and he went down hard, the sand scraping against his already battered skin. He rolled onto his back just as Darius loomed over him, his khopesh raised high, its blade gleaming in the sunlight. The crowd surged to their feet, chanting for the kill.
‘Death! Death! Death!’
Darius paused, his chest heaving, his gaze fixed on the fallen Roman. For a moment, the din of the crowd faded as his dark eyes locked with Falco’s. And then, inexplicably, he lowered his weapon.
The crowd groaned in disappointment, but Darius ignored them. There was something in Falco’s eyes, something defiant, unbroken. He took a step back, giving the Roman room to rise.
Falco stared up at him, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. He could see the decision in Darius’s face, the faint glimmer of respect that hadn’t been there before. Slowly, Falco pushed himself to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him.
He met Darius’s gaze, his own eyes hard with resolve. He should have been dead. Darius could have ended him, and the crowd would have cheered.
But he wasn’t dead, and the two men stood facing each other, the tension between them palpable. Darius gave the faintest of nods, acknowledging something unspoken.
Falco nodded back and without a word, they moved back into position, their weapons at the ready. The fight wasn’t over, not yet.
Falco steadied himself, the gladius feeling heavier in his hand with every passing second. His chest heaved as he drew in ragged breaths, his muscles screaming with fatigue. Across the sands, Darius mirrored his stance, his khopesh raised but his movements slower now, the early dominance replaced with a wary respect for his opponent. The crowd, sensing the shift, grew quieter, the air heavy with anticipation.
This time, when Darius attacked, Falco met him with renewed purpose. The narrow escape from death had ignited something deep within him, a fire he thought had long since gone out. His strikes, though still slower than at his peak, carried precision and intent and for the first time in the fight, Darius was forced to step back, his confidence shaken as the Roman pressed forward.
But Darius wasn’t just a brute; he was a master of the arena. He adjusted quickly, sidestepping one of Falco’s lunges and countering with a sweeping blow that clipped the edge of Falco’s shield. The Roman stumbled, the crowd roaring as the advantage shifted once again.
Back and forth they went, the sand beneath their feet churned to a chaotic mess. Each strike and parry drew gasps from the spectators, who now watched in stunned silence, their earlier derision forgotten. The fight had transformed into something extraordinary, a clash of equals, two warriors pushing themselves beyond their limits.
Falco ducked under a high swing, his gladius flashing upward to score a shallow cut on Darius’s side. The Egyptian grunted in pain but retaliated instantly, slamming the rim of his shield into Falco’s shoulder. Falco staggered, barely staying upright as Darius pressed the attack, his khopesh slicing through the air in brutal arcs.
The two men came together in the centre of the arena, their weapons clashing in a relentless rhythm. Their breaths were ragged, their movements slower but no less deadly. Each strike was met with a block, each feint countered, until it seemed neither had the strength to finish the other.
The crowd erupted into chants, their allegiance shifting with every exchange.
‘Fal-co! Fal-co!’ some cried, their earlier mockery replaced with awe.
‘Da-ri-us! Da-ri-us!’ others roared, their champion still standing firm.
Falco’s arms felt like lead, his vision blurring at the edges. He knew Darius was just as drained, the Egyptian’s swings had lost their earlier power, his footwork no longer as crisp.
They circled each other now, weapons raised but barely moving, their gazes locked.
Darius struck first, a desperate swing that Falco deflected at the last second. The counter was instinctive, a sharp thrust aimed at Darius’s shoulder, but the Egyptian twisted away, catching Falco’s blade on his shield.
For a moment, neither moved, their weapons held in a tense deadlock. Then Falco faltered. The stumble was small but decisive. Darius saw the opening and lunged, his khopesh raised high for the final blow.
The crowd surged to their feet, their voices a deafening roar of anticipation.
But Falco wasn’t finished.
With the last reserves of his strength, he dropped low, spinning on his heel to evade Darius’s strike. The move was fluid, almost instinctive and before Darius could recover, Falco drove his shoulder into his opponent’s back, sending him sprawling into the sand. As Darius spun around onto his back, Falco’s gladius came down, the blade stopping just short of his opponent’s throat.
The Egyptian froze, his chest heaving as he stared up at Falco, the cold edge of the blade resting on his skin. The crowd erupted in a single, thunderous roar, the arena shaking with the force of their reaction. The fight had been nothing short of magnificent.
Falco knelt over his fallen opponent, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body trembling from exhaustion. His gaze never left Darius’s, a silent understanding passing between them.
The crowd roared, their chants of ‘Fal-co! Fal-co!’ rising to a fever pitch, echoing through the arena like the crashing of waves. For a moment, he was caught in the din, the sheer magnitude of the noise around him overwhelming his senses. He looked up, his gaze sweeping across the packed stands. Thousands of faces stared back at him, their expressions twisted in bloodlust, their chants growing louder and more unified.
‘Kill… Kill… Kill!’
The words struck him like a physical blow, repeated over and over, a relentless drumbeat demanding death. He looked back down at Darius, the man who had pushed him to his very limits. The Egyptian lay still, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths, his dark eyes meeting Falco’s. There was no fear in them, only acceptance.
Falco’s grip tightened on the hilt of his gladius as he stared into the crowd, his pulse pounding in his ears. The faces blurred together, their chants merging into a single, primal scream. And then something shifted.
In that moment, Falco saw himself in Darius’s place, a man at the mercy of a crowd, his life reduced to a spectacle. He saw the countless fighters who had fallen before him, their blood staining the sands for nothing more than fleeting applause. He saw himself, a gladiator whose name had been both praised and jeered, caught in a cycle of violence that would never end.
The noise of the crowd faded in his mind, replaced by a single, resounding thought:
‘This isn’t who I am anymore.’
With deliberate slowness, Falco lowered his blade and stepped back from Darius. The crowd faltered, their chants wavering in confusion.
He looked again at his opponent, then back up at the audience, his voice cutting through the sudden lull.
‘No,’ he shouted, the single word ringing around the arena.
The crowd fell silent, the tension in the air almost palpable. Falco took a step forward, turning to face the sponsors’ box where the governor of Alexandria and the royal family watched intently. His voice grew louder, his words gaining strength with each breath.
‘No more,’ he shouted, his tone filled with conviction. ‘I will not stain my blade with the blood of an ally.’ He pointed the gladius toward Darius, his voice rising above the crowd. ‘This man is the true champion of Egypt. He fought with honour, and he let me live when I was defeated. I will not dishonour him or myself by taking his life for your entertainment!’
The crowd murmured again, confusion rippling through the stands. Falco raised his sword high, his voice now booming, carried on the wind like a war cry.
‘This gladius, this symbol of Roman strength, was never meant to spill the blood of Rome’s allies. It was meant to spill the blood of her enemies! If you seek death for sport, find it elsewhere.’ The crowd was silent now, their rapt attention fixed on him. ‘Let it be known,’ he continued, ‘Falco has fought his last battle in the arena. Never again will I step onto these sands to spill blood needlessly, and from this day forward, will only fight for the glory of Rome, not as a pawn for your amusement.’
He held the gladius aloft one final time, the blade catching the sunlight in a dazzling flash. Then, with a sharp movement, he cast it away, the weapon landing in the sand with a muffled thud.
For a moment, the crowd remained stunned, the weight of his words hanging heavy over the arena. Then, slowly at first, they began to cheer and as the noise grew, they rose to their feet, sending his name upwards to the watching gods.
‘Fal-co! Fal-co! Fal-co!’
Falco turned without another word and walked slowly toward the gates. The cheers followed him, the sound washing over him like a tide. For the first time in years, he felt free, not from chains or debts, but from the life he had once lived, and as he walked out of the arena, leaving the gladius and the sands behind, he knew that everything had changed. The roar of the crowd was still deafening, but in his heart, there was only silence, a clarity that told him this was the beginning of something new.
Falco was no longer a gladiator.
He was something more.
----
The noise of the crowd still thundered above, their chants echoing through the stone corridors beneath the arena. Falco walked slowly, his body heavy with exhaustion but his mind sharp and alive. Men lined the sides of the corridor, fighters, trainers, slaves, all clapping and slapping his back as he passed.
‘Incredible,’ one man muttered, his voice thick with awe.
‘Never seen anything like it,’ said another.
Falco offered no response, his face stoic as he kept moving. He didn’t need their words. Their admiration wasn’t what mattered anymore.
When he reached the familiar confines of his cell, two slaves were waiting for him with bowls of water and clean cloths. They set to work immediately, washing the sweat, blood, and sand from his battered frame. The water was cool, a stark contrast to the heat of the arena, and Falco let his body relax for the first time in hours.
Once they were finished, the slaves bowed and left him alone. Falco sat back on the wooden bench, staring at the far wall. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, his mind racing. He had done it. He had walked away from the arena for the last time, from the life he had known before joining the Occultum, the life he had thought he missed. And not as a broken man, nor as a defeated one, but on his own terms. He was still lost in thought when he heard the soft creak of the door. He opened his eyes to see Sica standing there, but something was different.
Sica’s expression was unreadable, his sharp eyes fixed on Falco with an intensity Falco wasn’t accustomed to.
‘Well?’ Falco asked, his voice rough but laced with humour. ‘Are you happy now?’
Sica stepped forward, holding a small scroll in his hand.
‘I have never seen anything like it,’ he said, ‘and don’t know what to say. So perhaps this might say it for me.’
Falco frowned, taking the scroll.
‘What is it?’ he asked, unrolling it carefully.
‘An invitation,’ Sica said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘To a dinner tomorrow night… with the royal family of Egypt.’
Falco looked up sharply, his brow furrowing.
‘You’re joking.’
‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ Sica replied. ‘You did it Falco, this is exactly what we wanted.’
Falco’s eyes flicked back to the scroll, scanning the elegant script. It was real. The words were unmistakable: a formal invitation, addressed to him by name, to dine with the most powerful family in Egypt. He leaned back, letting the parchment rest on his lap.
‘So, they didn’t hate my speech, then.’
Sica chuckled, shaking his head.
‘Hate it? Falco, they’re calling you a hero. You turned the entire crowd on its head. I’ve seen you fight a hundred times, watched you kill men from one end of the empire to the other, but today? Today was something else altogether.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Falco.
‘You had the skill to win against the best gladiator Egypt had to offer, but more than that, you had the humanity to walk away. To leave him alive and the humility to admit what most men in your position never could, that this arena, all of it, is just blood and dust.’
Falco’s gaze remained fixed on his friend, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles.
‘Don’t get all sentimental on me, Sica,’ he said, ‘you’re making me feel weird.’
Sica smirked.
‘Someone’s got to keep you grounded, Falco. Wouldn’t want you getting a big head after all this.’
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the day settling over them both.
Finally, Falco rolled the scroll up and set it aside. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked at Sica with an intensity that made the Syrian pause.
‘I exorcised many ghosts today, Sica,’ he said, ‘you know that, don’t you?’
Sica nodded.
‘I know. And after today, so will everyone else.’
Falco let out a long breath, his gaze drifting to the flickering torchlight on the far wall.
‘A dinner with royalty,’ he said, his voice breaking the silence. ‘Guess I’ll need to be on my best behaviour.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Sica, ‘I hear they serve good wine. Might even make this whole mess worth it. Come, your time here is done.
Both men left the cell and headed for the ludus doors. As they went, Falco glanced down at his friend with and a smile tugged at his mouth.
‘I was magnificent in there, though wasn’t I.’
‘Shut up, Falco,’ said Sica with a sigh. ‘We still have work to do.’
----
Chapter Twenty
Pselchis.
The day after the killing of the recruit, Marcus stood near the fort gates, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon as his men gathered behind him in disciplined silence. The events of the previous day hung heavy in the air, the tension palpable among the ranks. The murder had left a sour taste in every man’s mouth and Marcus knew it would take more than time to restore morale, it would take action and leadership.
‘Form up,’ he ordered, and the patrol moved into position. Each man wore his Lorica Squamata, the glinting scales of the leather armour catching the morning sun. Their helmets hung from straps on their shoulders, and their shields rested comfortably against their backs. Extra waterskins bounced heavily at their sides with each step, their importance outweighing the additional weight.
Marcus nodded in approval.
‘We’ll head for the escarpment,’ he said, addressing his Optio. ‘The sentries in the watchtowers reported seeing lights there a few nights ago. It could be nothing, it could be trouble. Either way, we’ll find out.’
Beyond them, in the distance, the escarpment rose like a jagged scar in the otherwise flat landscape, its edges darkened by patches of sparse vegetation. The patrol set out across the sunbaked ground, their sandals crunching against the hard-packed dirt. The morning air was still tolerable, a stark contrast to the heat that would come later. Marcus led the column with measured strides, setting a steady pace that allowed them to cover ground quickly without exhausting themselves.
‘You handled yesterday well,’ said Tullus after a moment, his voice low enough not to carry to the men behind them.
‘I did what I could,’ said Marcus. ‘But the men need more than words. They need focus, direction. That’s why we’re out here.’
Tullus glanced over his shoulder at the column of legionaries trudging behind them.
‘They trust you, Centurio. You’ve earned their respect.’
They marched on in silence for a while, the landscape stretching out before them in endless shades of ochre and brown. The ground was cracked and parched, the occasional thorny shrub breaking the monotony and small clouds of dust kicked up with each step, clinging to any exposed skin.
Despite the heat, Marcus insisted they wear their armour. The fishscale lorica offered protection without stifling movement, and he would rather have his men sweat now than bleed later.
As the sun climbed higher, he adjusted his pace slightly, mindful of the strain on his men. He glanced back periodically, his keen eye ensuring that the column maintained its discipline. Eventually, they stopped for a water break ordering the men that they were to take two swallows only. Once rested, they continued on, the distant escarpment growing larger with every step. Marcus’s mind raced as he considered their course. Today’s patrol was about more than just investigating movement in the distance, it was about reminding his men of their purpose, about rebuilding their confidence in the face of uncertainty. But more than this, he had to remember that behind it all was the mission given to the Occultum by Lepidus, and so far, he had found out nothing.
By midday, they had reached the base of the escarpment. The rugged cliffs loomed above them, their jagged edges casting thin slivers of shade over the parched landscape. The sun blazed overhead, and Marcus raised a hand to shield his eyes as he scanned the faint path winding its way up the steep slope. The path was narrow, barely wide enough for one man at a time. It twisted and turned, often vanishing around sharp outcrops before reappearing higher up. Marcus gestured for the men to fall into single file, their shields secured to their backs as they began the climb.
The first stretch was manageable, the uneven terrain forcing them to concentrate but not yet pushing their limits. The cool stone offered a brief reprieve from the relentless heat as they navigated the shaded crevices along the path, but the final ascent was brutal. The path narrowed further, and the incline steepened to the point where they had to scramble, their hands and feet clawing at the rocky surface. Dust clung to their sweat-soaked bodies, their breaths coming in short, sharp gasps as they pulled themselves upward.
