Pugnax the Gladiator by Paul L. Anderson

Author:Paul L. Anderson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pickle Partners Publishing
Published: 2016-07-19T00:00:00+00:00

VII. DAGGERS IN THE DARK

This Is the Tale of How Pugnax and Burbo, Gladiators of the School of Dumnorix, Sought Justice beneath the City of Rome.

FORGIVENESS of enemies, now practised by all Christians, was not an ancient article of faith. Injure a Roman, and it was incumbent on him to revenge himself; injure his friend or a member of his family, and vengeance was not only a pleasure, but was a doubly imperative duty. Therefore, when Contusor plotted to manufacture evidence that would get Burbo lashed to death with whips, he was running a double risk to which hatred blinded him. However, Burbo was so easy-going, so good-natured, that he found it difficult to hold enmity, and it was Pugnax who did the hating for both himself and his friend.

“This Contusor,” he told his room-mate, “is mean-spirited, vengeful, and treacherous. And he hates your very entrails. Therefore, lacking both the wit and the strength to revenge himself, he takes Maccus into his confidence—this pretty plan was Maccus’, beyond a doubt.”

Burbo objected to this.

“Nay, lad, I think you do them an injustice,” he demurred.

Pugnax shrugged.

“You are too forgiving,” he replied. “For myself, I seek vengeance; you may do as you please. Mehercle! and your back still sore from the lash!”

But any vengeance must be wrought by stealth, secretly, not in the open. Both Maccus and Contusor were valuable property, and to slay or injure them openly would incur the wrath of Dumnorix, who owned all four men, and who loved a sestertius no less than he loved an eye. Further, they had no sure proof against Contusor; confident though Pugnax was of the Teuton’s guilt, he could not prove it, and through some odd scruple Burbo refused to act on suspicion.

“Dii Immortales, Thick-head!” expostulated Pugnax, “you know in your heart that Contusor was the moving force of this pretty scheme. Does Maccus hate you? Have you ever done him the slightest harm? No! Wherefore, then, should he seek your life? But Contusor—”

“Nay,” Burbo interposed, “he lacks the brains for such a plan.”

“Now, there is a bit of wisdom for you! Of course he does—I have just said as much. A proof the more. Like the slow-witted aurochs of his own forests, he is solid bone above the ears. Hence he bought Maccus”

“Maccus was not bought,” objected the huge boxer. “He remains the slave of Dumnorix.” Burbo was never too agile of brain, and years of battering around the head had slowed what mental processes he owned.

“Idiot!” laughed Pugnax. “I do not mean that Contusor purchased his body, but his soul—if Maccus ever had such a thing. Fifty denarii would do it, or if not fifty, a hundred at the outside.”

This discussion took place on the exercise ground of the barrack, where, side by side on a bench, the two friends idly watched some thirty or forty gladiators who, scattered in pairs over the enclosure, were practising with wooden swords. Contusor detached himself from a group of spectators and sauntered over toward the two.

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