Pugnax The Gladiator

By Paul L. Anderson

Pugnax the Gladiator is part of a series of adventure books that take place in the Roman empire.

Set in the days of Cicero, before Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon, in the years before the Roman Republic evolved into the Roman Empire, it tells the story of a young Gaul sold into slavery after being captured during a battle between tribe, and is subsequently shipped to Rome and sold to a Ianista who trains gladiators.

The young man is given the name Pugnax and trained as a swordsman in the rough and tumble camp full of dangerous and colorful character.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tannenberg Publishing
• Release date: Jul 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781786259783

Paul L. Anderson

Paul Lewis Anderson (1880-1956) was an American photographer and author who wrote young adult historical fiction focussing on ancient Rome. Anderson was born in Trenton, New Jersey. He graduated from Lehigh University in 1901 and worked in electrical engineering before taking up photography in 1907. He was influenced by the photographs in the magazine Camera Work. In 1910 he started working as a professional photographer. A self-taught and award-winning photographer, Anderson worked within the mainstream pictorialist aesthetic of his day. Yet at the same time, drawing upon his engineering background, he applied a methodical and experimental approach within his creative process in order to advance his artistic ideals.

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Text originally published in 1939 under the same title.

© Pickle Partners Publishing 2016, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

PUGNAX THE GLADIATOR

BY

PAUL L. ANDERSON

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

DEDICATION 5

ILLUSTRATIONS 6

CHARACTERS OF THE STORY 7

PUGNAX THE GLADIATOR 10

I. FORTUNE’S JEST 10

II. THE FIGHTING NAME 21

III. IN THE STREET OF THE LUPANARIA 34

IV. THE INNKEEPER OF PUTEOLI 52

V. ATHLETES IN THE SUBURA 63

VI. BY FAVOUR OF THE GODDESS 75

VII. DAGGERS IN THE DARK 86

VIII. FORCED EMIGRATION 104

IX. A GODDESS CONDESCENDS 126

X THUNDER ON THE LEFT 141

XI. THE PRIEST OF DIANA 146

AUTHOR’S NOTE 164

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 165

DEDICATION

This book is gratefully inscribed (without their permission) to the following, gentlemen, without whose immensely valuable, though unwitting, assistance it could not have been written

DR. THEODOR MOMMSEN

DR. T. RICE HOLMES

DR. SAMUEL DILL

PROFESSOR HAROLD WHETSTONE JOHNSTON

PROFESSOR W. WARDE FOWLER

PROFESSOR EDWARD LUCAS WHITE

GAIUS JULIUS CAESAR

MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO

SALLUSTIUS CRISPUS

DECIMUS JUNIUS JUVENALIS

GAIUS PETRONIUS

AND MANY OTHERS

ILLUSTRATIONS

Furious, untouched by the general panic, angry rather than frightened, Dumnorix turned to meet the Germani

Like cattle they were lashed and driven on the southern journey to Rome

No such colorful, thrilling fight had been seen in Pompeii for many a day

One of them popped a heavy canvas bag over Liber’s head

CHARACTERS OF THE STORY

PATRICIANS

QUINTUS CRASSUS

GAIUS MUCIUS POLLIO

MARCUS PORCIUS LAECA

PUBLIUS LENTULUS SURA

LUCIUS SERGIUS CATILINA

LUCIUS VARGUNTEIUS

GABINIUS CAPITO

GAIUS CETHEGUS

QUINTUS CURIUS

DUMNORIX, an Aeduan youth, afterward known as PUGNAX THE GLADIATOR

DUMNORIX THE LANISTA, owner and manager of a school of gladiators; not related to the above named

gladiators in the school of Dumnorix the Lanista

BURBO, a pugil

ORONTES, a retiarius

MARCIFOR, a murmillo

CONTUSOR, a pugil

TIBERIUS, a retiarius, afterward known as TIBERIUS CORNELIUS RUFUS

ÆSCULAPIUS, a physician in the school of Dumnorix the Lanista

WORK-SLAVES IN THE SCHOOL OF DUMNORIX THE LANISTA

COQUUS, a cook

SCELUS, a gate-keeper

CLEOMENES, a secretary

DECIUS

MACCUS

CIMEX

DUILIUS

DAX, a lorarius

AULUS, an armorer in the Street of the Scythe-Makers

LUCIUS, a retiarius in the school of Pompeii

HOMINESS BELLI, DISSOLUTE YOUNG PATRICIANS

LUCIUS MARO

GAXUS VINDEX

PUBLIUS CLODIUS PULCHER

DECIMUS VARRO

GAIUS CELER

VOPISCUS MURENA, a ward politician, captain of voting centuries

MAMERCUS, an inn-keeper in Puteoli

FLAVIUS LIBER, a charioteer of the White Syndicate

PRISCUS LIBO, keeper of a wine-shop in the Velabrum

MARCIPOR, slave to Marcus Laeca

AMURU, an Ethiopian, one of the priests of Isis

BALBUS THE SAMNITE, the priest of Nemi

EPOREDORIX, an Aeduan nobleman

CRITOGNATUS—Aeduan soldier

BORVO—Aeduan soldier

GALBA—Aeduan soldier

ARIOVISTUS, a German, captain of a free company

DROMOS, alias CLEOMENES, a sea-captain

FABIA, a Vestal, sister to Quintus Crassus

SECUNDA, daughter to Quintus Crassus

JULIA, daughter to Flaccus the banker

DAPHNE, a freedwoman, formerly nurse to Secunda

CHLOE—lady of the dark robe

PRIMA—lady of the dark robe

POLLA, foster-sister to Tiberius Rufus; later, wife to Pugnax

SLAVES, SOLDIERS, CITIZENS, GLADIATORS, SPORTSMEN, FISHERMEN, LICTORS, SLAVE-DEALERS, ETC.

PUGNAX THE GLADIATOR

In verba Eumolpi sacramenticm iuravimus, uri, vinciri, verberari, ferroque necari, et quicquid aliud Eutnolpus iussisset, tamquam legitimi gladiatores, domino corpora ammasque religiosissime addicimus.

THE OATH OF THE GLADIATORS

I. FORTUNE’S JEST

This Is the Tale of How Dumnorix the Aeduan, afterward Known as Pugnax the Gladiator, Received a Gift from the Left Hand of the Goddess Fortuna.

ONE pleasant afternoon of late spring in the year 687 from the Founding of the City or, as we would say, 67 B.C.—two young men emerged from the ancient forest a mile or so from the walled town of Noviodunum of the Aedui, the modern city of Nevers. Perhaps it would be more exact to call them boys, for they were barely sixteen years old, but they were at all events stalwart and muscular, well-developed, vigorous, and browned by exposure to sun and wind. Their long yellow hair, blue eyes, gaily colored tunics, woolen trousers, and sandals cross-gartered to the knee proclaimed them natives of Gallia Braccata—Gaul in breeches—as the central part of Gallia Transalpina was called to distinguish it from Gallia Togata, the Roman provinces along the Mediterranean.

By Epona! exclaimed the older, glancing at the westering sun, we must run for it, or the gates will be closed. Here, Dumnorix, give me that net; it is too heavy for you. And you take the fish. Come on!

Exchanging burdens, they covered ‘the distance in a few minutes, reaching the gate in time, for the guard, seeing them come, held the great timber doors after the sun had dipped below the horizon.

Thanks, Borvo, the older youth acknowledged the favor. A fish for your supper?

And thanks to you, Critognatus, replied the guard, as he dropped in place the heavy bar which secured the gate. This will go well, fried with garlic. Another quarter-hour, and you had slept in the fields. What luck today?

Critognatus shrugged.

Naught to boast of, he returned. Dragging this heavy seine in the river all day, and but seven or eight fish to show for it—small ones, at that. Hardly enough to be worth carrying home. The Liger is getting fished out.

Nay, it is not that, spoke up the other of the two, a merry-looking young fellow. After our poor day yesterday I questioned a soothsayer, and he told me where lies our trouble.

Critognatus glanced doubtfully at the speaker, as though suspecting a jest, but Dumnorix’ face wore an expression of bland innocence.

Well, where? demanded the older.

Why, there are plenty of fish, but—

Go on! But what?

But we do not go to the right place to find them.

The guard broke into laughter, Dumnorix followed suit, and with a snort of You and your soothsayer! Critognatus flung the dripping seine at Dumnorix’ head. The latter ducked, and as Critognatus ran to pick up the net the younger lad caught a fish by the tail, swung it against the elder’s head, and knocked him sprawling. Jumping up in mock anger, Critognatus grappled his friend and the two wrestled and tugged until one or the other tripped and both went down, rolling over and over in the street in a tangle of arms, legs, seine, and fish, while Borvo held his sides and shouted with mirth. The sound of his laughter brought several heads to the guard-house windows, and these new spectators watched with delight until the boys, being out of breath, gave over, separated, got to their feet, and set about rearranging their disordered clothing, they also laughing over their romp.

Just like two bear cubs, vowed Borvo. By Epona, two bear cubs to the life!

And why not? asked Dumnorix, panting. The emblem of our patron Eporedorix is a bear. So why not?

And speaking of that, rejoined Borvo, suddenly grave, you will do well to get along to your patron’s home. Word came in today from Bibracte that Ariovistus and his fifteen thousand freebooters of the Germani have crossed the Rhenus River and joined the Sequani and the Arvemi against us. All fighting-men of the Aedui are called out for the defence. Eporedorix may want you, for all your scanty years.{1}

Agog with excitement at the news, the boys hurried along the buzzing street, alive with townsfolk chattering of the coming war for the chief power in Gallia Transalpina, the Sequani and the Arvemi being old-time rivals of the Aedui.

Do you mean to join the army? asked Critognatus of his companion.

Of course! Do not you?

I suppose so, the older youth admitted, reluctantly. But, frankly, I would rather be left in peace to hunt and fish. I can fight when it is needful, probably—anyone can—but my taste is not for war.

We are clients of Eporedorix; if he needs us, we must go. It is for our homes, our freedom.

Yes, to be sure. But to say truth, Dumnorix, I would rather fight against the Romans than against our fellow Celtae.

Naturally! Who would not? By Epona! would it not be glorious to sweep with an army through Narbo and Massilia, along the shores of the Inland Sea, down over the fertile plains of Italia, and into Rome itself, even as did our ancestors? Do you recall the song which Caedwen the Bard sang us last winter, of the Battle of the Allia, and how the Celtic troops marched unopposed through the Colline Gate, to sack and burn the city? By the Horns of Cernunnos, how glorious to lead such an army! There would be a tale for the bards to sing.

Critognatus was not fired by the younger lad’s enthusiasm.

Yes, he commented dryly, but not so glorious to meet, as did the Cimbri and the Teutones, another Catulus at Vercellae, or another Gaius Marius on the Putrid Plain.

Joy-killer! laughed Dumnorix. Why must you look forever on the dark side? Think of the glory. Think of the great city, which men say is so much more wonderful than Noviodunum or Bibracte, with its marvelous temples and statues, its Forum, its shops, its circuses, its theatres. By Epona! I would almost be willing to die in battle if I could first have a chance to see Rome.

Well, be content; some day you may lead such an army; some day you may see the city for which you long. Meanwhile we have the Arverni and the Sequam to beat if we would make good our own homes.

Dumnorix did not reply. He was gazing off over the roofs of Noviodunum, lost in thought, seeing in fancy the Mistress of the World, the city of his dreams.

Every Gallic nobleman had three classes of attendant, their numbers depending on—and contributing to his wealth and greatness. The lowest class were of course the slaves, either taken in battle, born in slavery, or purchased in the market. Next came the bondsmen, serving their patrons for a longer or shorter term of years, in payment of a debt. And highest of all were the clients, free citizens, who attached themselves to their lord for the purpose of mutual helpfulness, serving him voluntarily, but remaining at liberty, in certain circumstances, to shift their allegiance. The relation of patron and client was almost identical with that which existed in Rome in the early days of the Republic, and with the relation between lord and vassal during the Middle Ages. That is, the client fought for his patron, voted in his interest at elections, helped him in every possible way, and in return was protected against all oppression and not infrequently was fed, clothed, armed, housed, and aided financially by his overlord. The bond was loosely hereditary, though it had to be personally renewed when a man came of age, and it was so strong that a patron who in any way failed his client was held in small esteem, and a client was forever disgraced if he came alive from a battle in which his patron was slain.

Presently the youths reached the great stone mansion of their patron Eporedorix, whereas free clients by birth of one of the most powerful Aeduan nobles they enjoyed some consideration, and easily made their way through the vast courtyard, swarming with men, to where their patron was issuing commands and organizing his troops for the march.

Eporedorix looked the perfection of a prince and a warrior as he stood on the steps of his house, some two or three feet above the flagging, and gazed out over the bustling confusion in the court The light of new-lit torches glinted bravely on his polished helmet, wrought in the shape of a bear’s head; on his tunic of bronze chain-mail; on his bronze shield, inlaid with gold and brilliant enamels; and on the jeweled hilt and scabbard of his long Gallic sword. He was the only calm person in all the excited crowd, and he glanced smilingly at the two boys when they approached and asked to go with the fighting-men.

You wish to go with me to the wars? H’m! he said, doubtfully.

Yes! exclaimed Dumnorix, with eagerness, and the patron smiled approval, frowning, however, at Critognatus’ more sober reply:

I do not crave fighting, but it is my duty.

The Romans never liked fighting, but made war only reluctantly and when forced to do so; surrounded by warlike neighbors, and obliged to defend themselves, they developed a fighting-machine which has never in all the world been paralleled for efficiency, and they did so precisely because they hated fighting and wished to get the business over with as soon as possible. The Gauls, on the other hand, loved war for its own sake, and a man who did not enjoy battle was somewhat looked down upon. Critognatus’ attitude, therefore, was more akin to the spirit of Rome than of Gallia—and Eporedorix frowned. He hesitated, stroking his long yellow beard in meditation as he looked from one to the other.

H’m! he repeated. Then, at length: You are very young...however, you must learn some time...well, tell Orgetorix to find horses and armor for you. Be ready to march at dawn.

Thanking the chieftain, the boys hurried off to find the steward and get their equipment, nor did either of them sleep that night, but lay awake talking and thinking of what was before them, and listening to the nightlong bustle and hurry in the courtyard, to the neighing and stamping of horses, the jingle of armor, the shouts and calling back and forth of the men.

Unlike the long-haired Gauls, that is, the Eburones, the Nervii, and other northern tribes, the Celts of Gallia Braccata delighted in show, in personal decoration, even to the point of ostentatious display, and in the rosy dawn light the five thousand horsemen of Eporedorix made a brave picture with their shining helmets, their gaily colored tunics and cloaks, their polished and inlaid armor, their brilliant horse-trappings and blankets. The chieftain and his immediate retainers in the lead, the troops moved through the crowded streets, where women and children and old men, thickly lining the causeways, thronging windows and balconies, shouted encouragement and waved gay scarves and kerchiefs; and so to the plain outside the wall, where five thousand of infantry joined the horsemen. In truth, Eporedorix was one of the greatest princes of Gallia Transalpina; scarce a dozen others could have raised overnight ten thousand fighting-men.

Of necessity, the cavalry must limit their pace to that of the footmen, so the troops were four days in making the fifty miles to the rendezvous at Bibracte. They streamed along in a loose, chaotic mob, each man choosing his own place in the ranks, for never did the folk of Gallia learn the discipline which kept the Roman legions in order on the march, and in battle marshaled them in a stern, unbroken triple line. Dumnorix and Critognatus were nominally of the group surrounding the chieftain, but their freedom of movement was such that they often wandered back and forth, riding with friends, chatting with other troopers, and exchanging views and ideas with any whom they found willing to talk.

A tremendous spirit of confidence pervaded the whole army—even, it might be said, of boastfulness.

Why, exclaimed one, expressing the thought of all, how can these miserable Arverni stand before us? It is sheer insolence for them even to dare! We Aedui can put eighty thousand men into the field—half again as many as the Arverni and the Sequani together. And better men; what Arvemian can match an Aeduan? For strength and skill and courage, all three? It is well-known that we are the best fighters in all Gallia. And look at our leaders—Eporedorix, Diviciacus, and the latter’s brother Dumnorix. Whom have the Arverni and the Sequani to even with these and a half-score others? Nay, it is utter folly.

But, objected Critognatus, how of these Teutones whom Ariovistus brings? They are said to be stout and savage warriors.

And—passionately—are we not stout and savage? And there are at most some fifteen thousand of them. They can but prolong the war a trifle; the end must be the same—we will eat them alive. Eh, comrades?

An assenting shout went up, and swords were clashed against shields, the noise being taken up and carried through the whole army, though the ones beyond the speaker’s voice had no idea for what they shouted. Still, it was an excuse for cheering, something always welcome to Celtic folk.

This Diviciacus, went on Critognatus. How of him? I have heard it whispered that he is half Roman—that his sympathies are with Rome. Can he be trusted? Several of the others muttered under their breath, but the enthusiast replied, frankly:

True, there is that. And if our quarrel were with Rome, he might not be safe; he has been given the title ‘Friend of Rome’ by the Roman Senate. But, look you, our war lies with the Arverni and the Sequani, and so long as that is the case, he will be loyal. After all, he is a Druid of the Aedui; could he betray us? Nay, have no fear there; he will be true. Though, as I say, were it Rome that we fought—well, I should have my doubts, I admit.

Nods and grunts showed that the others agreed with this view, but on the whole the spirit of the army was cheerful; they foresaw some glorious fighting, and an equally glorious victory over their traditional rivals.

But Critognatus rode gloomily, his thoughts turned inward, so that when they halted for the night, and rolling in their blankets lay down to sleep, Dumnorix rallied him on his melancholy.

What ails you? the younger asked. By Epona, one would think you were riding to some dismal fate, instead of to a famous war, which, if Fortuna wills, may end by leading us to Rome. Once we dispose of these Arverni, the Aedui are chief rulers of all Celtica; we may consolidate the tribes under our control, and then let Rome beware—we shall see how long the Aedui will remain ‘Friends of Rome.’ By the Horns of Cernunnos, think of marching in like Brennus and holding the city to ransom for twenty slave-loads of gold!

Critognatus shook his head.

Nay, he answered, a trifle sadly, I have a foreboding that I shall not see the end of this campaign. When I said farewell to my parents last night, there was an aura, a halo, about my mother’s head, and my vertagus, my hunting-dog, howled thrice when I left. These things mean a death in the near future.

Dumnorix raised himself on his elbow to stare in the moonlight at his friend.

Epona! he ejaculated. And you are the one who derided me for speaking of a soothsayer! Why should not your dog howl? He knew you were going hunting, and was sad that you would not take him. As for the aura, you imagined it. Or if not, it is more likely to presage your mother’s death than yours. Cast off these gloomy thoughts, Critognatus; they serve no good purpose, and can but unman you for the fight. Cheer up! You and I shall yet ride side by side into Rome with a conquering army. Not this year, to be sure, for the time is not ripe. But it will come, and when it does I will drink your health in a flask of best Falernian.

But Critognatus shook his head again; he lacked the mercurial spirits of his friend, nor could he put away the sadness that weighed him down.

Bibracte was a larger town than Noviodunum, housing perhaps fifty thousand souls, but much like the smaller place in character, for both were manufacturing cities, famous for enamel work and for textiles, wherefore both were densely populated. As with Noviodunum, and indeed with all Gallic towns, a wall thirty feet high and twenty thick, of alternate layers of stone and timber, protected Bibracte from assault; within this wall were a few stone mansions and many beehive huts of wattle-and-daub, but most of the houses were of wood, their upper stories jutting

Reviews for Pugnax The Gladiator

[antiquary_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

One of a series of Roman historical novels I ooved as a child. Three are set during Caesar's Gallic War (Swords in the NOrth, For Freedom and For Gaul, With the Eagles) and two at the time of Catline's conspiracy (Slave of Cataline and Pugnax the Gladiator). Pugnax is a young Gaul originally named Dumnorix who is captured and sold as a slave in Rome where he becomes a gladiator.