John Roberts - The Year of Confusion

It was not at all unusual for highborn men to train with the funeral fighters back then. That is another thing the First Citizen has cracked down on. He doesn’t like aristocrats to mix with the scum. In those days the fighters were mostly volunteers and even condemned criminals and prisoners of war often re-enlisted after they’d survived their sentences, because it was a good life for a poor man with no marketable skills. You could get killed, but then senators got killed, too. Everybody else, for that matter.

For a while I watched the men train. Slave and free, volunteer fighters and condemned men, equites and senators, they were slashing and sweating with a will. Some of the highborn men were surprisingly expert. I saw the great senator Balbus practicing with a famous Thracian named Bato. That is to say, he belonged to the Thracian school and fought with the small shield and the short, curved sword, with both legs protected by armor. He was Illyrian by birth. Balbus of course used legionary weapons, similar to the Samnite.

“Senator Balbus could be a top professional,” Petraites said admiringly. “I think he’s the strongest man in Rome, and he fights like he was born with a sword in his hand. Maybe it’s the Spaniard in him. They’re great warriors.” Balbus was a rare non-Roman in the Senate, a man who had gained his rank through his services to Rome and his personal friendship with Pompey and Caesar. “Your boy Hermes could make you a fortune in the arena, Senator, if you’d let him. He’s an excellent light swordsman. Not enough bulk for a Samnite and he’s not comfortable with Thracian armor, but as a Gaul, with the narrow, oval shield and light helmet and no armor, he’d be perfect.”

“He’d like nothing better,” I said, “but I’ve forbidden him to fight professionally. And he’s not my ‘boy’ anymore. I freed him a while back. Luckily, I still have some control over his more foolish leanings.” At that moment Hermes was sparring with a dreadfully earnest-looking youth whose tunic had the stripe of an equites , doubtless recently made a Tribune of the Soldiers and soon to join a legion. Hermes was a joy to watch. He fought with grace and style, but he lacked the true brutishness that a professional must have to survive for years in the arena. When they were done with their bout I joined them. Hermes looked only a little shamefaced.

“Senator, this is Publius Sulpicius Saxo, who will be serving with Voconius Naso next year.” Naso was one of that year’s praetors, and sure to be given a legion command if not a province. You could never tell, with a dictator in power.

“Family connection?” I asked.

“I’m his son-in law.” He didn’t look old enough to be married, much less hold a tribuneship. I wondered if I could ever have been that young. Then I recalled that I had been this boy’s age when I was sent out to Spain as a military tribune to fight Sertorious. That was where I acquired the biggest of my facial scars.

“Hermes is a good instructor to teach you swordplay,” I told him. “Have you considered the gear you’re going to take with you?”

“Ah, I am not sure I understand,” the boy said.

“Simple enough. If it’s Spain or Gaul, you want the best sword you can buy. Get Gallic swords if you can, both a short sword for foot-fighting and a longsword for horseback. If it’s Macedonia, you want the best horses you can get. If it’s Parthia, don’t stint on your armor, because those buggers love to shoot you full of arrows. Greek plate armor is the best over there, the arrows just glance off.”

“Ah, thank you, Senator. I shall remember your advice.”

“No you won’t. You’ll probably just get killed like all the other young fools who go out to join the eagles with their heads stuffed with Homer and stories about Horatius.”

He wandered off, shaking his head. “A little rough on him, weren’t you?” Hermes chided.

“I just gave him almost the same advice my father gave me when I went off to Spain. Only the probable theaters of operation are different. I didn’t listen, why should he?”

I went to one of the equipment racks and tossed my toga atop it, then selected a wicker practice shield and a wooden sword. These were weighted to give them the feel and balance of real arms. Gladiators often trained with double-weight and even triple-weight arms, to build up strength and to make the real arms feel light when they went to fight seriously. I had always considered this a questionable practice and Asklepiodes concurred. He said that it caused more injuries in training than anything else.

“All right,” I said to Hermes, “Let’s fight.”

“I’m tired!” he protested. “I’ve been here all day!”

“That’s your fault,” I told him. “Now suffer for it.” I launched an attack at his face, forcing him to raise his shield, then I went low with a stab at his leading thigh. He evaded both easily. Tired or not, he was about fifteen years younger and trained daily with the sword. We contended for a long while, and I almost got the better of him a few times, but in the end he wore me down and I had to call a halt. We got a polite round of applause from the spectators and Balbus relieved me of my shield and sword, which I could barely lift by that time.

“You’re not too far off your best form, Decius Caecilius,” he said.

“You are too kind. I’m getting old and slow.”

“But you have a lot of sneaky and treacherous moves. That makes up for a bit of slowness brought on by age.”

“I’ve always prided myself on my utter lack of honor on the battlefield.” I saw Asklepiodes standing by in the crowd that had been watching. “Please excuse me, I need to speak to the physician.”

“I need to confer with him myself,” Balbus said. So we went over to him.

“Fine fighting on both your parts,” the Greek commended.

“I’m not a patch on Senator Balbus,” I said truthfully.

“Doctor,” Balbus said, “I have some sort of strain in my right leg that needs attention. Come, I’ll treat all of us to dinner.”

“I’ve been out all day,” Asklepiodes protested. “Let’s go to my apartments and I’ll have dinner brought in.” Physicians are usually eager to sponge dinner off somebody else, but Asklepiodes had grown wealthy with his uncanny ability to cure wounds. Treating the gladiators of the school took up no more than half of his time. There was so much fighting among Romans of the ruling class in those days that he made a fortune sewing up the cuts and stabs that adorned aristocratic hides like military decorations. He once reduced a depressed skull fracture right in the Curia Hostilia when the clubbed senator was too severely injured to be moved.

In his spacious receiving room we sat and relaxed among his vast collection of weapons. He gave orders to his silent slaves in their incomprehensible Egyptian dialect and then he went to Balbus. “Let’s have a look at that leg.”

Obediently, Balbus put his foot on a sort of footstool that Asklepiodes had devised for displaying and immobilizing the leg. The Greek set about feeling that brawny limb and making wise noises.

“What will it be, Balbus?” I asked. “Parthia?”

“Almost certainly. Caesar is my patron, and just now he’s on the outs with Antonius, so I’ll probably go as his legate, if not Master of Horse. Antonius is to stay in Rome.”

“So I’ve heard. My wife thinks he’ll loot the whole city.”

“Unlikely. He’ll squeeze, but he’s a better politician than that. Caesar will return someday, and Antonius will want to be in his good graces.”

“I am not so sure. Antonius’s propensity for extreme behavior has astonished men even more cynical than I.”

“Then we shall see how much he fears Caesar.”