Short Fiction by Mack Reynolds (ready to read books .TXT) 📕

small towns boasted their own. In Rome, the number of them grew so that eventually an avid follower could attend every day, the year around. And as they increased in quantity they also had to grow more extreme to hold the fan’s attention. The Emperor Philip, in celebrating the thousandth anniversary of the founding of Rome, had killed a thousand pair of gladiators, a rhinoceros, six hippopotami, ten hyenas, ten giraffes, twenty wild asses, ten tigers, ten zebras, thirty leopards, sixty lions, thirty-two elephants, forty wild horses. I am afraid I forgot the rest.”

Joe stirred in his chair. The other’s personality grew on him. The crisp voice had a certain magnetic quality that made what he said important, somehow. However, Joe’s interest in Roman history wasn’t exactly paramount.

Holland said, “You wonder at what I am driving, eh? Do you realize the expense involved in getting a rhinoceros to Rome in those days? Not to speak of hippopotami, tigers, lions and leopards. Few people realize the extent to which the Romans went to acquire exotic animals to be slaughtered for the edification of the mob. They penetrated as far south as Kenya, there are still the ruins of a Roman fort there; as far east as Indonesia; as far north as the Baltic, and there is even evidence that they brought polar bears from Iceland.”

Philip Holland snorted, as though in contempt. “But the mob wearied of even such spectacle as giraffes being killed by pygmies from the Iturbi forest. The games had started as fights between skilled swordsmen, being observed by knowledgeable combat soldiers of a warrior people. But as the Romans lost their warlike ardor and became a worthless mob performing no useful act for either themselves or the State, they no longer appreciated a drawn-out duel between equals. They wanted quick blood, and lots of it, and turned to mass slaughter of Christians, runaway slaves, criminals and whoever else they could find to throw to the lions, crocodiles or whatever. Even this became old hat, and they turned increasingly to more extreme sadism. Children were hung up by their heels and animals turned loose to pull them down. Men were tied face to face with rotting corpses and so remained until death. Animals were taught to rape virgins.”

Joe Mauser stirred again. What in Zen was this long monologue on the Roman games leading to?

Holland said, “By the way, contrary to some belief, the games didn’t end upon Christianity becoming the dominant faith and finally the State religion. Constantine legalized Christianity in 313 AD but it wasn’t until 365 that Valentinian passed a law against sacrificing humans to animals in the arena and the gladiator schools remained in operation until 399. The arenas were finally closed in 404 AD but by that time the Roman Empire was a mockery. In all they last more than half a millennium, but things move faster these days.”

The tone of voice changed abruptly and Holland snapped a question at Joe. “By your age, I would imagine you’ve participated in the present day fracases for some fifteen years. How have they changed in that time?”

Joe was taken aback. “Why⁠ ⁠…” he said, hesitated as he got the other’s point, then went on, nodding. “Yes. They used to be company size⁠—a few hundred lads involved. After a while, a battalion size fracas became fairly commonplace, then about ten years ago a corporation of any size had to be able to put at least a regiment into the field and the biggies had brigades.”

“And now?” Holland urged.

“Now a divisional size fracas is the thing.”

“Yes, and if a corporation isn’t among the top dozen or so, a single defeat can mean bankruptcy.”

Joe nodded. He had known of such cases.

Holland leaned back in his chair, as though all his points had been made. He said, his voice less brisk, “Our People’s Capitalism, our Welfare State, took the road of bringing the equivalent of the Roman ludi to keep our people in a state of stupefied acceptance of the status quo. And as in the case of Rome, the games are bankrupting it. Our present day patrician class, our Uppers, have a tiger by the tail, Joseph Mauser, and can’t let go. We need those capable and intelligent people of whom you spoke earlier, to make some basic changes. Where are they? Nadine said that your great driving ambition is to be jumped to Upper in caste. But even though you make it, what will you have on your hands but these problems that the Uppers seem unable to solve?”

Joe said, impatiently, “Possibly you’re right. What you say about the fracases becoming bigger and more expensive is true. They’re also becoming more bloody. In the old days, a corporation or union going into a fracas was conscious of having a high casualty list among the mercenaries. Highly trained soldiers cost money. Insurance, indemnity, pensions, all the rest of it. Consequently, you’d fight a battle of movement, maneuver, brainwork on the part of the officer commanding, so that practically nobody was hurt on either side. One force or the other would surrender after being caught in an impossible situation. Not any more. These days, they want blood. Plenty of blood. And they want the Telly cameras to focus right into the middle of it.”

Joe shook his head. “But it’s not my problem to solve. I’ve got my goal. I’ll worry about other ones when I’ve achieved it.”

A voice behind him said superciliously, “I do believe it’s the status hungry captain, ah, that is, major these days. To what do I owe this unexpected visit, Major Mauser?”

Joe came to his feet and faced the newcomer, Philip Holland doing the same, somewhat more leisurely.

Baron Balt Haer, wearing a colonel’s uniform and flicking his swagger stick along his booted leg, stood in the doorway. His voice was lazily arrogant. “And Mr. Holland, I must say, the Middle caste seems to have taken over the house. Well, Major Mauser? I assume you do not labor under the