Amulet I Page 8

  Chapter VI

  “If fortune favours you do not be elated; if she frowns do not despond.” – Ausonius

  It was a cold spring day. The officers had arranged the sword contest almost six months before and no one had anticipated the poor weather. A cool wind swept across the Campus Martius swaying the grass into little eddies and swirls, driving the sloping rain into every tiny aperture of my clothing.

  Riding on the breeze, was the ever present odour of the Tiber. The poor river, Father Tiber, into which every sewer in Rome emptied, gave out the smell of its contents, which always surrounded it like an odiferous cloud. A good day in Rome carried the smell away to the west. On this particular day, it was a west wind and the stench did nothing to enhance the sweaty smell of the seven thousand legionaries gathered around us.

  The Augurs, dressed in their long black robes stood on the podium, undaunted by the rain, mumbling their incantations to Mars. Everything in Rome started with augury for we are both religious and superstitious.

  The legionaries, remarkable for being even more superstitious than most, betrayed no great interest in the religious proceedings. Perhaps it was because they were impious but more likely, they were impatient to see what was to them, the most important event in the month. The augurs stunned the ewe and cut its throat. They proclaimed the liver to be clear and the entrails clean and at last we could begin.

  The entire Ninth Legion had bought tickets and the eight pairs of contestants stood facing each other in two lines. The spectators murmured in anticipation.

  I had drawn Titus Percennius, a small fast man from Brundisii. I knew him slightly, for two years before we had been in the same barracks when we were on manoeuvres in Sicilia. Percennius was experienced in swordplay but I thought I might have the edge on him if I kept my wits about me.

  My Centurion, Asinnius, had trained me with the gladius and had given me a few tips. He was a short man with greasy black hair that hung down over his forehead when he took off his helmet. He had a habit of frequently brushing it aside with his hand. He was mostly pleasant but had a short temper and he had a reputation for venting it on anyone to hand. He also had a reputation as a gambler and rumour had it that his debts had reached astronomical proportions. I knew that he had money riding on the outcome of the sword contest but of course, it made little difference to me. I did not have much money and would never have betted with the little I did have. I always remembered my father describing gambling as a fool's game.

  'Remember it's a fight to first blood and not a mortal combat. We aren't Germans you know,' Asinnius said.

  'Can I draw blood from anywhere?' I asked.

  'Yes but it's not like gladiators fighting. You have to avoid the groin, throat and face. Of course we get an occasional grudge fight where one of them dies but that's very unusual.'

  'So I have to fight will all the skill I can muster but not hurt my opponent?'

  'Something like that. Here I'll show you my favourite move.'

  Asinnius feinted with his sword to his left and as I parried, the Centurion knelt to my left. He reached out to his left fast and touched my knee with the flat of his sword. He rolled away before I could respond. He got up breathless and smiled.

  'If that was a contest, I would have cut you a little but only enough to draw blood and I would have won. Now you try it.'

  'What do I get if I win the whole contest?'

  'Forget it; you won't win the whole contest. The man who will win, is an officer called Meridius. He is the fastest thing that ever walked on two legs and believe me he can run rings round a pup like you!'

  'Don't bet on it!'

  'Believe me, I will.'

  I was fast. Asinnius knew it from the hours he had spent training me and he and his friend Barbus, Centurion of the third cohort, had bet a large portion of their month's wages on me winning my first bout. The Centurions knew that I stood no chance of winning the contest. They knew quite well that my speed alone was not enough and that experience counted for more. Experience was the one thing I lacked, since the only fighting in three years in the Ninth Legion had been in Crete, when the legion, under Quintus Caecilius Metellus had helped put down a minor rebellion. Even then, it had only been one small skirmish and I had drawn blood just once.

  The eight pairs of contestants lined up facing each other, far enough apart that the fights would not interfere with each other. I looked at my opponent; I fiddled with the green stone around my neck hoping I would get luck from it. I could feel the silver wire wound around it, worn smooth in places by my examining fingertips. Percennius smiled in a friendly way. I suppose he was full of confidence and had nothing against the youngster he saw before him.

  The fighting began with a roar from the assembled legionaries. We were all armed with the short gladius sword of the legions. It was short, broad bladed and double-edged. Each of the contestants had sharpened their weapons to razor sharpness for a tiny nick in the skin would give them the bout. Each of us carried a small round shield such as the auxiliary soldiers carried, because a scutum, the large oblong shield of the Roman infantry, would have been an impossibly cumbersome obstruction to skilful swordplay.

  The wet ground beneath our feet was churned into mud in no time as each contestant circled the other in the sloping rain, with small sidesteps, looking for an opening.

  Percennius was an experienced sword fighter and nimble with it. He feinted to his left. Then, quick as a snake, the sword swung to the right. The speed took me by surprise. I managed to protect my right arm with my shield, but it was close.

  Next to us, we could hear a gladius hammering a shield. The crowd roared in anticipation of someone’s fate. It all came into my mind at once. I realised I would need all my concentration and focus. My opponent was already stepping forward for another try.

  This time I knew what to expect. I realised both of us were fast. The only edge I could gain would be from anticipation. I pictured what I thought Percennius would do. I decided to move. I stepped forward.

  Expecting a feint as before, I parried to my left. I struck upwards with the edge of my sword. He parried. Our shields clashed. Thrust - parry - shield - thrust - slash. The weapons became a blur of moving, molten steel. Within moments, we both stepped back, unscathed and breathless. There were similar movements all around us. I felt a back thrust against mine, hard and unforgiving.

  Percennius winked. He winked, smiled and stepped forward. I felt he was scorning me. It made me react. As my opponent had expected, I thrust forward with my shield. I held back my sword. I made a forward slicing cut aimed at his left arm behind the locked shields. Percennius was too quick. As he blocked, shield to shield, he reached under mine in a short quick lunge. It would have caught me on my left forearm. Anticipation is everything. I had already moved aside. As Percennius’ arm withdrew, I stabbed. Across his chest behind his shield, I caught the outstretched arm. I had cut a small nick below the elbow.

  We stepped away from each other and a Centurion checked Percennius' arm. He raised his right hand and pointed to me. There were smiles and some applause for me from the nearest legionaries, but most were watching the reigning champion who, with both arms raised, waved at the crowd to huge applause for he too had won his first bout.

  There were four pairs left and I now faced a big man with a black beard and curly hair and a scowling expression of distain for me, his young opponent.

  He attacked without delay. He swung his gladius from left to right and right to left. He hammered my shield until I dropped it from a nerveless arm. We faced each other again. I was sweating. I looked him in the eyes. They were staring and wide.

  The big man rushed forward his weapon swinging. I could ill afford to be still. I parried and knelt. I reached low to his left knee, sword slicing from left to right. Then I rolled away and stood.

  Fortuna! I had cut my opponent’s left knee. It was a lucky strike but it drew blood from a deep gash at the front of the knee.

  The big le
gionary looked down at his knee and stood for long seconds regarding his wound. He promptly lost his temper; his face turned puce. He leapt forward with his sword raised. He was swearing at the top of his voice. I had to back away fast. The man followed me. I ran in circles. It became a farce. Seeing me chased by that huge sword-wielding fury, half the spectators roared with laughter. One of the Centurions, who acted as marshals, was finally able to interpose himself.

  I had one further bout and found myself facing the reigning champion, Meridius. This man was unlike the others. He seemed relaxed and confident and he stood before me in an almost arrogant pose, as if the result was a foregone conclusion. There was a look of calmness in his hazel eyes and he had an open expression, deep lines at the corner of his mouth betraying a keen sense of humour. His cleft chin and sharply sculpted nose gave him a craggy strong face. It was the face of a leader of men.

  I felt my heart thumping but not from exertion, I felt tense, excited, but not hopeless. I thought I could win, for I felt I had won all three bouts so far by luck. I knew I had a chance even against a real champion if I was lucky again.

  I touched the amulet at my neck. It had brought me luck so far, why not once more? Had I asked any man in the legion, I might have realised that no one else thought I could win.

  Meridius stepped forward fast. I confess I was taken by complete surprise. He made one simple thrust with his blade. Straight at my face. I was expecting the reigning champion to have speed, but the deftness and purity of the movement showed a focus I had never imagined possible. I only just managed to avoid the thrusting gladius by raising my shield. I stepped back. On came the champion. His sword thrusting, parrying, swinging in a blur. I needed dizzyingly deft footwork to avoid it. I had to work hard at defending myself. I found I was backing away all the time. My opponent moved forward quickly in small half steps.

  Neither of us raised our swords too high. Nor did we lower our shields enough either, to allow the expected lucky cut to occur. After fifteen minutes, some of the crowd made catcalls.

  It was rare for such matches to last this long, but neither Meridius nor I gave way. The drizzle became rain. It became more difficult for me to maintain rapid footwork as the mud stuck heavily to man and sandal. I wiped my brow with my sword hand.

  We were breathing hard when Meridius slipped and my heart leapt for I saw my chance. I thrust forwards in a straight line. I aimed at the momentarily flailing champion. To my utter surprise, the man was still able to parry. His riposte caught me on the wrist. It was deft, a small, clean wound and a definite cut. I realised with chagrin that I had lost. In one short moment, the dream had gone.

  Meridius smiled. He approached me, embraced me and taking my right hand, he raised it above shoulder height to show his admiration for his young opponent. A little blood trickled down both my arm and his hand as he did so.

  'You should never fall for the pretended stumble. It's an old trick.'

  As it dawned upon me that I had been fooled, I found I had no anger or irritation, only admiration for my vanquisher.

  To my surprise and barely hidden delight, the crowd of soldiers raised a cheer and as I felt my cheeks flush, my Centurion led me from the field.