So, dear readers, where were we? You are right! In the last chapter I told you how our dear Astulfus had challenged Tiridates of Armenia. He came forward and said these words: "It is a pity that there is no sea in Armenia, for if I throw you to the ground, you will drown in the sand."
Tiridates, who by nature was more used to humiliate than to be humiliated, was ready to reply: "There is the river Araxas in Armenia, little cinaedus, and there I learnt to swim with my dog, and I warn you that in the Caucasus the dogs are so big that they could eat you".
So Tiridates replied to Astulfus, who at that moment did not know how to reply, said: "Ah, yes. Well, that is... the fog in Britain is so thick I could drown you in it," said Astulfus, wagging his finger, and drawing a hearty laugh from Tiridates, who was now holding himself back from choking.
"Oh dear, the mist! And twice the threat of drowning!" said Tiridates, holding his stomach to keep it from bursting, "I'd like to call you stupid. But as they teach you in school, the fog is made of water, so you could actually drown me."
Tiridates laughed... indeed he laughed, but then he became serious and said: "Anyway little cinaedus, lets end with this travesty?"
Astulfus charged furiously. Tiridates stepped aside and patted him on the bottom with the back of his hand.
"...!" (Astulfus).
Our friend from Britannia almost flew out of the saddle as Tiridates laughed and said: "Thank goodness you are male, otherwise I would be ashamed to mistreat you like this."
Astulfus remounted and galloped towards his opponent, red-faced, until he received another pat on the bottom.
"Good grief! Usually, the shield is carried in the front, but perhaps you should consider carrying it in the back."
The people laughed, the people cheered, but the only one not amused was Astulfus himself, who was determined to try again.
Suddenly, Tiridates became serious. As they say, don't take a joke too far, don't push it too far. He made a running start, intending to dislodge him once and for all, but the moment the two made contact, it was Tiridates who found his legs in the air, flat on the sand.
It lasted a moment. As soon as Astulfus made the decision to strike, Tiridates felt a cold blade pierce his chest without anything having touched him.
At that moment, the spears collided against the shields, but it was Tiridates who lost his balance. There was a great crash of metal falling to the ground, followed by a deep silence.
Had what had just happened really happened? Even Astulfus could not believe it. He stood there, upright in the saddle, looking around, amazed and confused no less than the others. He turned and turned but could find no explanation. Someone must have helped him.
I will say nothing of the spectators, least of all Tiridates, for I think you can imagine how stunned they were. I was there, and although I was delighted with his victory, I was no less speechless than the others.
Meanwhile, Tiridates had risen and was so angry that Astulfus was not sure he was safe.
In a rage, he raised his fist and struck the arena with such force that his body was enveloped in a cloud of sand.
Astulfus stood there: upright in the saddle, motionless with fear.
"Well, enjoy your victory, little cinaedus..." said Tiridates before leaving the field, "...you will not last more than a minute in this arena!"
"Th-thank... you?" replied Astulfus, who now wanted nothing more than to leave the camp.
So Astulfus stood, victorious and not quite ready to be beaten by his next opponents. Many of them were certainly more competent than Astulfus, but they all fell like ripe pears.
Idantirsus of Scythia fell, Severus of Petra fell, and many others I will not tell you about. Astulfus looked down at his spear and realised that there could only be one explanation: either years of training had finally paid off, or luck had finally begun to turn.
"..."
Right, neither explanation, but this is Astulfus we're talking about, let's give him this moment of glory because he deserves it. Not that I wasn't tempted to point out that Astulfus' spear hadn't broken after so many blows (and that is suspicious for a regular spear), but you've seen how people treat him. Let them have the punishment they deserve.
Meanwhile, Astulfus played again, galloping happily around the arena until Ganaleon appeared.
During all this turmoil, rumours had reached Ganaleon: Tiridates had been shot down, and many others after him.
He did not believe that he could have been defeated by Astulfus. On the contrary, he held him in high esteem, and was certain that some strange event had intervened, or that some trick had been played.
So he thought of stealing the triumphant glory of this victory. To make a more beautiful display, with great pomp and valour, he had his cousins and brothers accompany him. He went before Volusius, and with a bold speech apologised for his late arrival.
Whether Volusius accepted it or not, I know not; but he made a good face to him. Then Ganaleon marched in a pompous manner towards Astulfus.
Ganaleon's armour was similar to Marfisa's, but he looked more like a falcon. He carried a long Celtic sword and a cloak over his left shoulder. He had no horse, for he intended to challenge Astulfus on foot.
It did not take a genius to see that something was wrong. The secret of so many victories must have been Astulfus' horse. If there was one thing Astulfus was not good at, it was standing on his feet, and on foot Ganaleon had beaten him too often.
"You like being such a show-off now that you can taste victory..." said Ganaleon arrogantly, already tasting victory, "...why don't you come down here and show everyone what you're really worth."
Blinded by victory, Astulfus dismounted and walked the distance required by the rule. He threw his great oval shield to the ground, for it was not permitted in this kind of combat. Then he blew his war horn in defiance. Ganaleon did likewise, but before the clash began, something happened that startled them both.
The people in the stands were at the height of their excitement when a third war horn, louder and more eccentric than the others, sounded.
All heads turned to a figure standing on the highest ledge, a figure so large that even from this distance he seemed enormous.
He had snow-white skin and thick red hair, the heart of a dragon and the limbs of a giant. He was Pandracon, Lord of Hyperborea and Alania, and he had come to claim his prize, but not without first paying his respects to the people of Rome.
He too was dressed like a gladiator, but his attire was different from the others. He did not wear a hauberk, but heavy plate armour. He carried no weapons, but gloves and reinforced forearms, accompanied by a heavy helmet. And over all this metal he wore an elegant red and white robe that made him look like a dragon.
With a few leaps he descended the steps and landed softly in the centre of the arena. He remained motionless on his knees, waiting for the arena to fall silent, then rose dramatically. He picked up his war horn and, blowing vigorously, addressed everyone present.
"People of Rome! I am Pandracon, the All-Dragon King of Alania and Hyperborea..." he said with force and arrogance, "...here among you lives Marfisa, the most beautiful woman in the world, and I have come to take her away to the distant land of Hyperborea. If you disagree, come and challenge me in this arena and prove that you are more worthy than I am".
With that, he made it to the edge of the arena in a few supernatural leaps, and to the box where the emperor sat in another big, massive jump.
If Pandracon's size betrayed supernatural strength, those jumps convinced everyone. The only one who did not seem impressed was the Emperor Volusius, to whom Pandracon said: "Half plebeian, two thirds god, three quarters satyr... that is what they say about you!" said Pandracon, looking down at him, "So, my dear Emperor of Rome, how does it feel to know that this barbarian will soon fuck your daughter? That the beautiful Marfisa Ulpia Vopisca will moan with pleasure before me like the most vulgar of whores?"
Volusius remained calm and motionless, then raised his grey eyes and black hair. He looked like an old wolf, but despite his age he was well preserved, lean and robust as if he were a few decades younger.
Volusius did not answer, nor would Pandracon have had time to listen, for although he did not know how or when, he found himself with his back to the ground and his legs in the air, while Volusius held his head down with the palm of his hand.
"If you wish to participate in the games, go ahead, I do not mind..." said Volusius with a look that seemed more like that of a wolf, "... but beware the words you use with my daughter, for you will find that it was neither gold, nor the iron of others that gave me the crown I wear."
Nothing answered Pandracon, who struggled to remember the last time someone had knocked him down, let alone when he was wearing heavy armour.
Besides, Volusius was twice his age, and though he was tall and strong, he was hardly a match for him. Then Pandracon's eye fell on the ring the emperor wore: not the gold one on the ring finger, but the one of strange metal worn on the index finger. It was made of a snow-white metal similar to silver, decorated around the edges with wavy bands of silver beads, in which were set two small circular amethysts or one large amethyst that looked like oval eyes with one or two pupils.
Pandracon looked at the ring. He was drawn to it. And the more he looked at it, the more it seemed to him to have been carved with such skill that he had the illusion that those amethyst eyes would move if you looked at them long enough.
An optical illusion? The more Pandracon looked at it, the more he felt that this was not a real ring. No, he knew rings, and this could not be one. It was a cloud of eyes with one or two purple pupils circling a finger of flesh and bone.
Y' mgepah shuggoth mgep y' grah ya lloig
Ahor Y' mgr'luh, ngnah ahnythor y' ph'nglui ahna n'ghft'
Ahor Y' bug, ngnah ahnythor y' llll fhtagn syha'h'?
Pandracon shivered suddenly. Had he imagined those eyes? Had he imagined the voice in his head? Volusius stood before him, no idea how much time had passed and no sign that the ring was more than it seemed.
He shifted his gaze back to the emperor, only now noticing that he was wearing the typical gladiator's armour: a hauberk over a gambeson, and underneath a blue cloak that resembled the fur of a wolf.
The cloak, however, was flimsy and had something terrifying about it. It seemed to whisper a lament and moved lightly without a thread of wind.
In his hand, Volusius held a helmet whose bristles formed a crest resembling a wolf's mane. On the wall, however, was a long romphaia, its blade cold and emitting an eerie blue glow.
"You know. During the games, people like to see me dressed like this. The Gladiator Emperor! Although I find these games ridiculous and have never really participated in them. For you, I could make an exception and fight again," said Volusius, putting on his helmet. "You like to play the hero, but you act like a dragon, stealing treasure and ravishing women."
Volusius' gaze went blank for a moment, and his thoughts returned to a past when he was much younger.
In those memories was a Varuclezia no older or younger than the one of today. As Volusius looked at his ring, he heard the word I had whispered to him long ago: "I know what your heart seeks. It seeks what will give you the right to claim a treasure, to find your nymph and to slay a dragon.
Volusius smiled nostalgically and said: "A tale of nymphs and dragons... damn you, green-haired witch," then he threw himself from the parapet. He fell a good ten metres and then stood upright, completely unharmed. "Come, my king of Alania and Hyperborea, let us see what you are made of!"
"As you wish. We will do it your way!" said Pandracon, before he jumped back into the arena. Then he said: "Well then, is there a lack of brave men here in Rome, apart from your emperor? Is there no one who will challenge me?"
Ganaleon remained motionless, while Astulfus was almost tempted to retreat, when a young woman with brown hair and eyes, of Libyan descent, stepped forward from the tribune.
Aesara stepped forward and descended the terraces, landing awkwardly on the sand. Then she ran towards the centre of the arena.
She wore no real armour, for she was not a true gladiator, but rather an eccentric but graceful dress. Her outfit consisted of a short brown jacket with long sleeves over a thin black top, brown shorts with metal trim and black leggings with gold details and hems.
This outfit was complemented by a pair of gold plated shoulder straps, bracelets and a belt decorated with geometric patterns. Attached to her belt was a toolbox, while in her hand she held a long coiled rope with a lace.
On her head she wore a black cap with two long false rabbit ears protruding from it, while on the lower part of her back there was a brown and white tuft that looked like a hare's tail.
As you can imagine, Aesara was not meant to go into battle, but to repair Marfisa's equipment. Only occasionally did she enter the arena as a laquearia: a gladiator armed with a lace, whose sole purpose was to annoy Marfisa's opponent. The animalistic armour was only for the eyes of the spectators.
"I... I... I will not allow you to hurt my teacher!" said Aesara.
"Really? A bunny with a string?" said Pandracon. "I hope Marfisa was a good teacher, because I am going to have a lot of fun with you."
Astulfus responded by stepping forward. I cannot tell you, my lords, whether he did it out of gallantry or because he liked Aesara, but it is certain that Astulfus' courage tripled that day. He grabbed his spear.
"Deh! From one little girl to another," said Pandracon, before anyone else stepped forward. It was Rogerius, son of Volusius and twin brother of Marfisa. He looked like a young wolf, with black hair and grey eyes, worthy of his father in beauty. His armour, however, made him look like a young black and gold lion, while on his shoulder he carried a metal mace like Medulfa's.
At his side was Hermanubius, a gladiator who looked much younger than the others. He was short and puny in appearance. His skin was dark, like every other inhabitant of Nubia. His eyes were black, and his dark hair was dishevelled and dyed purple. His gaze, however, did not seem very alert, or at least distracted.
He had no helm. Over his gambeson and hauberk, he wore a dark cloak with a jackal-shaped hood covering the upper half of his face. Hermanubius was an archer, and he needed sight and sound to find his opponent in a false forest in the middle of the arena.
Ganaleon said nothing. He remained silent. Those who did not remain silent were the spectators. You can imagine their delight at this improvised show.
Seven! Seven were the gladiators in the arena, each with a different weapon and fighting style. In the centre, dressed as a red and white dragon, was Pandracon, fighting with his fists and heavy plate armour. On the side, dressed as a brown rabbit, was Aesara, who fought with a rope. Next was Rogerius, the yellow lion, fighting with a mace. Then came the green and brown hawk, Ganaleon, who fought with a long sword. Dressed as a blue and black wolf, Astulfus fought with a spear. Finally, the Emperor himself, dressed as an indigo wolf, fought with the Dacian Romphaia.
All were magnificent to behold and worthy of a poem. The first to move was Ganaleon, who, contrary to his usual Magantiacum ways, did not stay last to steal glory that was not his own.
His sword struck the armoured forearm of Pandracon, who responded with a blow to the diaphragm that sent him flying through the air. Another hit his head and would have shattered it but for the helmet he was wearing.
Ganaleon fell to the ground while his sword fell into the hands of Pandracon, who decided not to use it. Everyone knew that the armoured man fought without weapons. Who was he to break the rules? He unscrewed the knob and said to Hermanubius: "So you, skinny as you are, would you be one of those who defeated the invincible Marfisa? Tell me, which way did you strike her? From the right or the left? Or did she pity you so much that she preferred to lose rather than make a miserable impression?"
"Actually, statistically, it is impossible to be completely invincible..." Hermanubius replied in a dull, monotonous tone, "...to be invincible, one must either face weak opponents or very few opponents. Sooner or later your opponents will adapt, or sooner or later you will be unlucky. Marfisa has a talent for weapons, but Marfisa doesn't fight so often in the amphitheatre that we can't be sure she's invincible.
Pandracon didn't... really know how to react to this answer. He had expected to be insulted or attacked in a fit of rage, but Hermanubius did not even seem to notice that he had been offended. Rogerius chuckled.
"Well, let's see this little jackal of Nubia..." said Pandracon, before throwing the pommel from his hand. Hermanubius was struck in the forehead and was never heard from again until he regained consciousness much later.
"...aaand so fell the great Hermanubius."
Rogerius lowered himself to check on his friend, then turned to Pandracon, who bowed his head in mockery.
Rogerius attacked, but this time Pandracon dodged rather than parried. For all his arrogance, he was well aware that a blow from that mace would have shattered his bones.
It was better to dodge against such a weapon, while Rogerius used the distance to his advantage to corner him. Three times Pandracon charged to strike, and three times he had to retreat, until Rogerius feinted and caught him in the leg, knocking him to the ground.
Pandracon rolled, again and again, until he managed to get some distance. He did not like this situation, especially one he could not get out of without using brute force.
A problem that did not seem to bother Rogerius, who was also a robust and lively young man. Though it was not like him, he knew when to use the third style of fencing and keep his distance, while the second style came easily to him: look at him as he deflects Pandracon to the side with a well-struck blow.
Pandracon stood back and took a deep breath. It was like back home in Hyperborea, where snow reigned supreme. There was no point in moving, no point in fighting: sweat turned to ice and life ended in the hands of the gods. He had to calm down and move just enough. He took another deep breath, and his mind went back to the past: a past in which he was not yet the giant he was today.
"I am king of the world! I am king of the world!" shouted a young Pandracon from the rooftops of the imperial palaces.
"And I am on your shoulders, so I am your queen," said a young Marfisa riding Pandracon.
They both laughed.
Pandracon savoured the memory and smiled. Then he raised his arm and grabbed Rogerius' mace. He kneed him in the chest and took him out of the fight for a while.
The crowd fell silent and Pandracon turned to Aesara and said: "So! Do you still want to defend your teacher?" said Pandracon, advancing in a threatening manner.
Aesara stepped back while Astulfus stood between them like a perfect citizen of Rome.
Pandracon took up a sentry position. Astulfus charged, spear in hand, and ended up with his face in the sand and his legs in the air.
"Damn my luck!" said Astulfus.
How he stumbled into the sand, even I cannot tell you. What matters is that Pandracon chose to ignore him.
"You really are a joke, aren't you?" said Pandracon.
Astulfus did not have the strength to answer, and Aesara helped him to his feet.
"You two little girls better stand aside..." said Pandracon before turning his gaze to the emperor, "...there is a bigger beast to hunt."
Volusius said nothing. He moved the romphaia with a fluid, light and elegant motion, brushing the sand without touching it. It was a subtle detail, but as the blade passed, the sand of the arena shifted of its own accord, leaving a frost-covered furrow.
Volusius aimed his weapon at Pandracon, who for a moment felt himself thrown into the blizzard. He felt a chill run down his back and muscles, as if frozen by ice.
Volusius pushed the romphaia into the sand and spread his arms, inviting Pandracon to attack.
"Here I am. Here I will show you why I am called Isengrimus, the Iron Wraith."
Ganaleon regained his senses. Hermanubius and Rogerius followed. But none of them dared to interrupt the fight. It was between the Emperor of Rome and the King of Alania and Hyperborea, and between them alone.
Thus faced each other the all-dragon of Hyperborea and the iron-wraith wolf of Rome.
Pandracon took a deep breath and moved forward calmly. No impatience, no impulse. He approached until he was almost in range. He took up a guard position, and that day no one could understand what had happened. The only thing known for certain was that Pandracon was on the ground and Volusius had him pinned by the arm.
