GLADIATORES . APVD . RVPRECHTVS . INSANVS . REX
Created | Updated Sep 12, 2002
Cyrenaica, 180 AD.
The roar of the crowd reached its zenith as I strode through the gates and into the treacherous bowl of the amphitheatre.
My eyes never left the six assorted protagonists who stood before me as I stooped to gather a handful of sand, rubbed it meaningfully between my palms and drew my short bladed falx supina, or whatever the damned thing was called. Holding it the right way around on the third attempt and nodding stiffly to the opposition I prepared myself for battle with a brief hail to the audience.
"Morituri nomulus mori!"
It was a far cry from my heady days as the commanding general of the Roman Armies of the North, the proud legions of Emperor Marcus Aureilius that had carved an empire from the freezing north of England to the burning deserts of Africa. After my all conquering force had laid waste to the hosts of Germania I had been proclaimed successor to the ailing Caeser as Protector of Rome; to return the city to the people, purge the Senate of infamy and corruption and to be generally all round magnificent, handsome and sexy.
Of course, in deference to my usual abysmal revolutions upon the wheel of fortune, the Emperor's cowardly and scheming son Commodus had murdered his father, usurped the crown and had me sentenced to execution by my own Praetorian Guard.
After escaping my would be assassins I fled the scene courtesy of the four stout feet of a stolen cavalry charger whose previous owner had little further use for, an assumption based upon the four stout feet of accurately hurled gladius residing in the area previously reserved for his spleen. Eventually weakened from a combination of overexertion and grevious wounds I had succumbed to unconsciousness, whereupon I was bushwhacked by nomadic slavers and treated to an all expenses paid trip to North Africa via the comfort and convenience of a sturdy wooden cage with spiked accessories. One confusing dream sequence later and before I could say 'Commodus et illegitimus est' I had been sold to the great lanistae Proximo, assaulted with a daub of red paint and consigned to the gladiatorial pit of Zucchabar to provide reasonably priced family entertainment on the end of a sharp trident.
This was to be a sine remissione contest decided upon pollice verso by the munerator against two ordinarii, one thraces, a dimacheri and two hoplomachi in galea, galerus and ocrea. I had been given precious little instruction in the art of gladiatorial combat but was reliably informed that I was expected to thrust the dangerous end of my short sword into anything that blundered within range or until such time as the fellow who ran this establishment deigned to turn his thumb down.
Well, so much for the rules and regulations; if it was a fracas that these odious types wanted then a fracas they were going to get.
The first of the ordinarii made a clumsy swing with his gladius that I parried with ease and replied with a swift uppercut to the mala with my pugnus laevas. Stepping past the reeling warrior I locked blades with his doppleganger, nimbly came about with a dandified twirl and carved the disorientated combatant from his fauces to his subligaculum. As the original contestant regained his senses and successfully compounded his original error with a second attack, I feignted the ham fisted stroke, readjusted my grip on my own weapon and made an effortless slash at his venter that caused his intestinus parvus to spool out over his peditatus. I paused momentarily to consult my copy of Practical Home Gladiator to ensure that I had performed all this to the satisfaction of the congregation, then stepped forward to meet the next impending casualty.
I had expected greater things from the thraces, given the fact that he had been afforded the protection of a large round parma with which to fend off my baneful intentions. So as I ducked a rash manouvre from his keen edged lamina, lashed out at his collum with a fountain of sanguis and drove my blade through his dorsum as he collapsed to his genuum, I determined that this alleged gladiator would have been hard pressed to elude a defective chariot being pushed by two asthmatic slaves.
The same was true for the antagonistic hoplomachi wielding a fearsome two handed securis. A cumbersome double handed axe was no weapon with which to enter a competition of this nature and I demonstrated the fact with a deft slice to his abdomen, a lightning blow to the nasus with the manubrium of my falx supina, consummated with a career ending strike that ran him clean through the cor.
His left pulmo fell out with a sad, wet 'plop.'
Stepping over the recumbent disputant I squared off against the dimacheri who was of the opinion that if a trusty sword did not carry the day then a second one probably would. Under normal circumstances I may have reconsidered my advance in the face of such unfavourable odds, but by now my blood was up and the poor wretch was as close to death's door that he may easily have been mistaken for the letterbox. A proficient chop to his leading manica redressed the balance as the single bladed dolabra pirouetted from his grasp, decamping the arena to the terminal surprise of a low flying ibis. Impelling myself past the foe I treated him to a glancing hit from my olecranon process to his intercostal torae, performed a dexterous pas-de-deux that comprehensively outfoxed the lumbering cretin and went on to artfully render my initials into his pectus with eye-watering speed and veracity.
Salvaging the fellow's redundant weapon from his cooling fingers and adding it to my own ordnance I boldy approached the single remaining hoplomachi, introduced one length of trusty steel into each papilla and waited patiently for him to release the blunt ended scipio that he had wished to make a dominant feature of my cranium. As a dramatic finale I retrieved both blades with elan and seperated the hapless pugilists caput from his corpus with such force that he was able to witness his body tumble to the arena floor from the fourth row of the audience.
Removing my helmet and casting it to the ground I raised my arms aloft and addressed the spectators.
"My name is Ruprechtus Insanus Rex, commander of the Armies of the North and General of the Phoenix Legions. Loyal servant to the true Emperor Marcus Aureilius; father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife and I shall have my vengeance in this life or the next!"
An ashen faced old gentleman sporting toga and laurels fixed me with a withering gaze from the balcony and hissed,
"Be that as it may; this is a Titus Maccius Plautus production of Cistellaria. Gladiatorial games are on Wednesdays. Now kindly remove your sword from my leading actors head and be off with you!"
Hurriedly I thrust my telltale bloodied brand behind my back, grinned apologetically and set a new speed record for the rearwards nonchalant walk.
It really was turning out to be one of those days.
The roar of the crowd reached its zenith as I strode through the gates and into the treacherous bowl of the amphitheatre.
My eyes never left the six assorted protagonists who stood before me as I stooped to gather a handful of sand, rubbed it meaningfully between my palms and drew my short bladed falx supina, or whatever the damned thing was called. Holding it the right way around on the third attempt and nodding stiffly to the opposition I prepared myself for battle with a brief hail to the audience.
"Morituri nomulus mori!"
It was a far cry from my heady days as the commanding general of the Roman Armies of the North, the proud legions of Emperor Marcus Aureilius that had carved an empire from the freezing north of England to the burning deserts of Africa. After my all conquering force had laid waste to the hosts of Germania I had been proclaimed successor to the ailing Caeser as Protector of Rome; to return the city to the people, purge the Senate of infamy and corruption and to be generally all round magnificent, handsome and sexy.
Of course, in deference to my usual abysmal revolutions upon the wheel of fortune, the Emperor's cowardly and scheming son Commodus had murdered his father, usurped the crown and had me sentenced to execution by my own Praetorian Guard.
After escaping my would be assassins I fled the scene courtesy of the four stout feet of a stolen cavalry charger whose previous owner had little further use for, an assumption based upon the four stout feet of accurately hurled gladius residing in the area previously reserved for his spleen. Eventually weakened from a combination of overexertion and grevious wounds I had succumbed to unconsciousness, whereupon I was bushwhacked by nomadic slavers and treated to an all expenses paid trip to North Africa via the comfort and convenience of a sturdy wooden cage with spiked accessories. One confusing dream sequence later and before I could say 'Commodus et illegitimus est' I had been sold to the great lanistae Proximo, assaulted with a daub of red paint and consigned to the gladiatorial pit of Zucchabar to provide reasonably priced family entertainment on the end of a sharp trident.
This was to be a sine remissione contest decided upon pollice verso by the munerator against two ordinarii, one thraces, a dimacheri and two hoplomachi in galea, galerus and ocrea. I had been given precious little instruction in the art of gladiatorial combat but was reliably informed that I was expected to thrust the dangerous end of my short sword into anything that blundered within range or until such time as the fellow who ran this establishment deigned to turn his thumb down.
Well, so much for the rules and regulations; if it was a fracas that these odious types wanted then a fracas they were going to get.
The first of the ordinarii made a clumsy swing with his gladius that I parried with ease and replied with a swift uppercut to the mala with my pugnus laevas. Stepping past the reeling warrior I locked blades with his doppleganger, nimbly came about with a dandified twirl and carved the disorientated combatant from his fauces to his subligaculum. As the original contestant regained his senses and successfully compounded his original error with a second attack, I feignted the ham fisted stroke, readjusted my grip on my own weapon and made an effortless slash at his venter that caused his intestinus parvus to spool out over his peditatus. I paused momentarily to consult my copy of Practical Home Gladiator to ensure that I had performed all this to the satisfaction of the congregation, then stepped forward to meet the next impending casualty.
I had expected greater things from the thraces, given the fact that he had been afforded the protection of a large round parma with which to fend off my baneful intentions. So as I ducked a rash manouvre from his keen edged lamina, lashed out at his collum with a fountain of sanguis and drove my blade through his dorsum as he collapsed to his genuum, I determined that this alleged gladiator would have been hard pressed to elude a defective chariot being pushed by two asthmatic slaves.
The same was true for the antagonistic hoplomachi wielding a fearsome two handed securis. A cumbersome double handed axe was no weapon with which to enter a competition of this nature and I demonstrated the fact with a deft slice to his abdomen, a lightning blow to the nasus with the manubrium of my falx supina, consummated with a career ending strike that ran him clean through the cor.
His left pulmo fell out with a sad, wet 'plop.'
Stepping over the recumbent disputant I squared off against the dimacheri who was of the opinion that if a trusty sword did not carry the day then a second one probably would. Under normal circumstances I may have reconsidered my advance in the face of such unfavourable odds, but by now my blood was up and the poor wretch was as close to death's door that he may easily have been mistaken for the letterbox. A proficient chop to his leading manica redressed the balance as the single bladed dolabra pirouetted from his grasp, decamping the arena to the terminal surprise of a low flying ibis. Impelling myself past the foe I treated him to a glancing hit from my olecranon process to his intercostal torae, performed a dexterous pas-de-deux that comprehensively outfoxed the lumbering cretin and went on to artfully render my initials into his pectus with eye-watering speed and veracity.
Salvaging the fellow's redundant weapon from his cooling fingers and adding it to my own ordnance I boldy approached the single remaining hoplomachi, introduced one length of trusty steel into each papilla and waited patiently for him to release the blunt ended scipio that he had wished to make a dominant feature of my cranium. As a dramatic finale I retrieved both blades with elan and seperated the hapless pugilists caput from his corpus with such force that he was able to witness his body tumble to the arena floor from the fourth row of the audience.
Removing my helmet and casting it to the ground I raised my arms aloft and addressed the spectators.
"My name is Ruprechtus Insanus Rex, commander of the Armies of the North and General of the Phoenix Legions. Loyal servant to the true Emperor Marcus Aureilius; father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife and I shall have my vengeance in this life or the next!"
An ashen faced old gentleman sporting toga and laurels fixed me with a withering gaze from the balcony and hissed,
"Be that as it may; this is a Titus Maccius Plautus production of Cistellaria. Gladiatorial games are on Wednesdays. Now kindly remove your sword from my leading actors head and be off with you!"
Hurriedly I thrust my telltale bloodied brand behind my back, grinned apologetically and set a new speed record for the rearwards nonchalant walk.
It really was turning out to be one of those days.
