Conn Iggulden - The Field Of Swords

“Do they say big men are slow where you come from, little soldiers?” he taunted their blank faces. The evening was cool and he felt invincible.

As Ciro stepped into the ring, a voice called out and many of the soldiers grinned in anticipation as Brutus came running back with Domitius.

“Hold, Ciro. Brutus wants a turn before you beat the big ox,” Domitius said, panting.

Brutus came to a halt as he caught sight of Artorath. The man was enormous and more heavily muscled than anyone he had ever seen. It was not simply a question of strength, he saw. Artorath’s skull was half as large again as Ciro’s, and every other bone was thicker than a normal man’s.

“You have to be joking,” Brutus said. “He must be seven feet tall! You go ahead, Ciro. Don’t wait for me.”

“I fought him,” Domitius said. “Nearly had him over as well.”

“I don’t believe you,” Brutus said flatly. “Where are your marks? One punch from those big fists would put your nose through the back of your head.”

“Ah, but he isn’t punching. It’s like Greek wrestling, if you’ve ever seen it. He uses his feet to trip you, but the rest is holds and balance. Very skillful, but as I said, I almost had him.”

Ciro still waited patiently and Artorath only raised an eyebrow in Brutus’s direction, completely oblivious to the conversation going on around him.

“I can beat him,” Ciro said, in the pause.

Brutus looked dubiously at Artorath. “How? He’s like a mountain.”

Ciro shrugged. “My father was a big man. He taught me a few throws. It is not Greek wrestling that he is doing. My father learned it from an Egyptian. Let me show you.”

“He’s yours, then,” Brutus said, clearly relieved.

Artorath looked at him as he spoke, and Brutus waved a hand to Ciro, stepping back.

Once again, Ciro stepped over the line and this time he moved forward in a quick lunge. Artorath matched him and the two men met with a hard smack of flesh that made the watching soldiers wince.

Without pausing, Ciro broke the grip on his shoulders and took an outside line, narrowly avoiding the big Gaul’s horny feet as they swept toward his ankles. Ciro slid past him and tried to leap away, but Artorath spun and held him before he was clear.

Their legs entwined as each man fought to throw the other. Artorath twisted out of Ciro’s hands and very nearly threw him over his hip, the move spoilt by Ciro dropping into a low crouch and then launching himself, trying to take Artorath off his feet. Against such a big opponent, it only made Artorath stagger, and automatically he crossed his forearms and pressed them against Ciro’s throat, heaving backward.

It might have been the end if Ciro’s heel hadn’t blocked his step so that Artorath fell like a tree, crashing into the earth with Ciro on top of him. Before the Romans could begin to cheer, the twined figures exploded into an even faster struggle, breaking and taking grips and using the slightest purchase to apply holds on joints that would have broken in smaller men.

Artorath used his powerful hands to lock Ciro’s throat again, and Ciro found his little finger and snapped it with a jerk. Though he growled, Artorath maintained the grip, and Ciro was growing purple as he found another finger and sent that the way of the first. Only then did the big man let go, holding the injured hand.

Ciro came to his feet first, bouncing lightly. The big Gaul rose more slowly, with anger showing for the first time.

“Should we stop it?” Domitius asked. No one answered.

Artorath launched a hard kick that missed, stamping the ground as Ciro sidestepped and grabbed Artorath around the waist. He failed completely to lift the big man. Artorath managed to lock Ciro’s wrist, but his broken fingers lost their hold and he bellowed in Ciro’s ear as the Roman chopped his foot into Artorath’s knee and brought him down on his head. The Gaul lay stunned, his great chest heaving. Ciro nodded to him and helped him to his feet.

Brutus watched with fascination as Artorath grudgingly opened his belt pouch to give back one of the coins he had won. Ciro waved it away and clapped him on the shoulder.

“You next, Brutus?” Domitius asked slyly. “His fingers are broken, you know.”

“I would, of course, but it wouldn’t be fair to hurt him further,” Brutus replied. “Take him to Cabera and have that hand splinted.”

He tried to mime the action for Artorath, who shrugged. He’d had worse and there was still more silver in his belt than when he’d started. He was surprised to see open cheerfulness on the faces of the soldiers around the ring, even those he had beaten. One of them brought him an amphora of wine and broke the wax seal. Another patted him on the back before walking away. Mhorbaine was right, he thought. They really were a strange people.

The stars were incredibly sharp in the summer sky. Though Venus had set, Julius could see the tiny red disk of Mars, and he saluted it with his cup before holding it out for Mhorbaine to fill. The rest of the Gauls had retired long before, and even the watered wine had helped to relax the wariest of them toward the end of the feast. Julius had spoken to many of the men, learning their names and the locations of their tribes. He owed a debt to Mhorbaine for the introductions and felt a pleasant, drunken regard for the Gaul as they sat together.

The camp was silent around them. Somewhere an owl screamed and Julius jumped. He eyed the cup of wine and tried to remember when he had stopped adding water to it.

“This is a beautiful land,” he said.

Mhorbaine glanced at him. Though he had not drunk anywhere near as much as the others, he copied their sluggish movements with a rare skill.

“Is that why you want it?” Mhorbaine asked, holding his breath for an answer.

Julius did not seem to notice the tension in the man who sat on the damp ground at his side, and simply waved his cup at the stars, slopping the red liquid over the rim.

“What does any man want? If you had my legions, wouldn’t you dream of ruling this place?”

Mhorbaine nodded to himself. The wind had changed in Gaul and he had no regrets about doing what he had to, to preserve his people.

“If I had your legions, I would make myself a king. I would call myself Mhorix, or Mhorbainrix, perhaps,” he said.

Julius looked blearily at him, blinking. “Rix?”

“It means king,” Mhorbaine told him.

Julius was silent in thought and Mhorbaine filled their cups again, sipping at his own.

“But even a king needs strong allies, Julius. Your men fight well on foot, but you have only a handful of cavalry, whereas my warriors were born in the saddle. You need the Aedui, but how can I be sure you will not turn on us? How can I trust you?”

Julius turned to face him. “I am a man of my word, Gaul. If I call you friend, it will last all my life. If the Aedui fight with me, their enemies will be mine, their friends will be my friends.”

“We have many enemies, but there is one in particular that threatens my people.”

Julius snorted and the heat of the wine filled his veins. “Give me his name and he is a dead man,” he said.

“His name is Ariovistus, ruler of the Suebi and their vassal tribes. They are of Germanic blood, Julius, with cold skin, a plague of ruthless horsemen who live for battle. They raid farther south each year. Those who resisted them at first were destroyed, their lands taken as right of conquest.”

Mhorbaine leaned closer, his voice urgent. “But you broke the back of the Helvetii, Julius. With my riders, your legions will feast on his white warriors, and all the tribes of Gaul will look to you.”

Julius stared at the stars above, silent for a long time.