David Wishart - In at the Death

‘Yeah. He’s on his break in the privy, communing with nature. Give him ten minutes.’

‘Fine. I’m in no hurry.’ I leaned over and moved a couple of abacus balls along their wires. He pulled the machine out of reach. ‘So how are things? In general, that is?’

‘You must’ve seen for yourself when you came in. We’re bursting at the seams. Apropos of which, old Fannius in the potter’s shop next door is giving up business and moving to his daughter’s in Capua. I thought we might take over his yard and knock a hole through the wall if you’re agreeable. Expand into the women’s market.’

‘The women’s market?’

‘Yeah.’ Another evil grin. ‘Don’t tell me it’s never been done, I know that. Still, it might be interesting. Get a few retired female gladiators in as trainers, modify the programme a bit, target a young age-group. Lots of feisty girls out there who want more out of life than sitting at home doing crochet. As an idea, it could be a winner.’ He winked. ‘Especially since it’s a low wall.’

‘You pulling my string?’

‘Could be. You decide.’

I stood up; a little of Daphnis went a long way. Besides, he’d already picked up the stylus again in a not-so-gentle hint that I’d used enough of his valuable time. ‘Yes to buying the Fannius place,’ I said, ‘but as far as Amazon Annexe is concerned I don’t think Rome’s quite ready for female body-building classes, pal. You’d have both of us pegged out for the crows by irate male relatives inside of a month.’

He shrugged and reached for the wax tablet. ‘Suit yourself. But you’re passing up on a real goldmine.’

‘I’ll take that risk. Watch you don’t sprain your fingers on that abacus, Daphnis.’ I moved towards the door.

He set the tablet down. ‘Hey. What about the dog?’

‘Oh, she’ll be no trouble. She’s settled now.’ She was flat out, doing her random-pile-of-hair impression. ‘I’ll pick her up when I leave.’

‘Like hell you will! Corvinus! Corvinus! ’

I went back out into the sunshine: the weather had cleared, and it was a beautiful October day, not too hot but without a cloud in the sky. There was a stone bench to one side, and I sat on it to watch the punters while I waited for Publius to come out of the latrine. Daphnis was right, the place was full: there were a good dozen of various ages and conditions hammering away at each other with wooden swords, some of them with assistant trainers looking on or giving one-to-one lessons. Daphnis got them from the gladiatorial schools — retired gladiators are fairly common in Rome, the ones who come out intact the other end have to be good to do it, and the sand’s in their blood — or from among the number of ex-squaddies who’d blown their discharge grant and needed a steady job to pay for the pulse porridge and sour wine. I watched as one of them, a single-lessoner, ducked under a roundhouse swipe from an obvious complete tyro and prodded him in the ribs with the tip of his dummy sword.

‘Not the bloody edge, sir,’ he said wearily. ‘You’re a swordsman, not a sodding lumberjack. How many times do I have to tell you? Use the point!’

I grinned to myself as he took the abashed kid — he can’t’ve been more than fourteen and looked a complete penpusher in embryo — through the motions of the legionary punching stab. Yeah, well, at least we were providing a valuable service here. The boy had a purple stripe on his tunic, and in two or three years’ time he could be out on the fringes of the empire doing this for real. I’d never been in that position, sure, but the lessons with Scylax had saved my life a dozen times. Especially the lessons they don’t teach you in the army. Knifemen in Rome are simple, direct souls; not a lot of them have read the military manual or even looked at the pictures, and when push comes to shove knowing when to plant a judicious knee in the balls or a fist in the throat can come in very handy.

I’d been sitting there for a good ten minutes when Publius limped out of the privy. He’d taken a German spear in the right leg nine years before, in the Frisian revolt, and it’d severed a tendon so he couldn’t bend the leg at the knee; which was why he’d been invalided out before his time and, incidentally, explained the drinking. Not that it cramped his style as a swordsman any. I’d made the mistake, the first time I fought him, of allowing for it and got a jab in the ribs that still gave me a twinge months afterwards.

He saw me, and came over, throwing a perfect military salute on the way.

‘Good to see you again, sir,’ he said. ‘You fighting today, or just visiting?’

‘Fighting,’ I said. ‘If you’ve got the time.’

‘Always got the time for you, sir.’ Yeah, well, it made a change from Daphnis. And the guy was no arse-licker, either: when he said ‘fighting’ he meant it. Witness that first stab. ‘There’s a clear space over there.’

We walked over to the edge of the group, picking up a couple of wooden swords from the pile on the way. He stopped and came on guard.

‘Any time you’re ready, sir.’

I took it nice and slow to start with. I needed to warm up, if he didn’t, and besides wading straight in with Publius was a bad, bad idea: it just meant you got clobbered barely a dozen moves into the bout, or he let you wear yourself out trying to get through his guard and then clobbered you. As it was, he didn’t even have to shift his feet: every stab of mine was deflected past his body with a wrench of the wrist that had me moving back and on guard again quickly before the point of his sword caught my ribs on the riposte. Five minutes later I was sweating, and Publius’s breathing hadn’t even quickened.

‘Not bad, sir,’ he said after a particularly savage parry-and-twist had almost taken the sword from my hand and he’d waved a pause. ‘You could do with coming down here a bit more often, though. You’re signalling far too much and your guard’s downright sloppy in places. I could’ve had you a dozen times over.’

I grinned and wiped the sweat from my eyes. ‘Yeah,’ I gasped. ‘Yeah, no argument, pal. Sorry. Want to try again? I’ll try to concentrate more.’

He came on guard, but this time he made the first move. The stab came quick as a striking snake, and I just managed to catch the edge of his sword between my blade and hilt and turn it away from my exposed side. He stepped back, changed the angle and lunged again: all far too fast for me to bring the sword round to block the thrust, but I somehow managed to swerve and the point just brushed my tunic. Then I lunged in my turn at his exposed armpit, but there, suddenly, where it shouldn’t have been, was his hilt between us. The jar and wrench as the blades met threw me to one side and his sword was coming straight for my unguarded chest. I leaped away so the wooden tip barely touched me. Not that I had any illusions on that score: he’d pulled the punch, and if it’d been a real fight he’d’ve skewered me.

‘Much better,’ he said. ‘You’re thinking ahead now and you’re moving faster. Still, not good enough yet. On your guard again, please.’

We kept it up for another half hour or so with breaks for me to get my breath back. By the end I was sweating like a pig, Publius was looking as cool as when we’d started and my ribs were sore from half a dozen thrusts I hadn’t managed to block. I’d touched him once, more by luck than design, or maybe he’d just felt sorry for me: but it was on the arm, not in the chest, and I’d left myself open when I did it so if he’d wanted to he could’ve given me a real stinger. I stepped back and held up my sword.

‘That’ll do me for today, pal,’ I said when I had enough breath to speak. ‘Thanks a lot.’