David Epperson - The Third Day

Lavon spotted an idle Roman soldier and called him over. They spoke briefly; then the man demonstrated the procedure far more competently than I could have. The legionnaire grinned as Markowitz repeated the drill several times, then patted him on the back and ambled off to rejoin his unit.

“Remember,” I said, “go for the gut. If you stab him in the ribs, your sword could get stuck. While you struggle to pull it out, your opponent will be able to kill you before he dies.”

He nodded, though this seemed to be more of a reflex action than a sign of genuine understanding.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How did you deal with it?”

Inwardly, I groaned. We could discuss philosophy afterward, if he lived.

“I dealt with it by thanking God that my enemy was laying there on the ground instead of me,” I snapped.

This was accurate enough, though for much of my career, their destruction had taken on an antiseptic quality. On my last posting, I had reviewed the videos of missile strikes from the air conditioned comfort of a headquarters conference room, with a cup of coffee in my hand.

“Don’t tell me you enjoyed it!”

“In war, enjoyment is not a factor. It’s kill or be killed. Take your pick.”

“I don’t want that on my conscience,” he said.

“Your conscience should be the least of your worries. At least one of you will not walk away from this place. Besides, if you win, the worst thing you’ll be guilty of is the desecration of a corpse.”

He looked at me in confusion.

Lavon came to the rescue. “Ray, Bill’s right. The prisoners here are all dead men. Within a week, not one of them will be alive, regardless of whether you fight or not; whether you win or lose; live or die.”

Markowitz stared at him as if he were trying to convince himself of the truth.

“Do you remember that terrible sight coming into the city?” I asked. “Of course you do. You’ll never forget that as long as you live. That , you must remind yourself, will be your opponent’s fate should you fail in your duties here.”

“What you do will be an act of mercy,” said Lavon.

Finally, his mind started to point in the right direction; and not a moment too soon, either. At the other end of the courtyard, about thirty Romans had begun to form a ring with their shields.

“This gives the Octagon a whole new meaning,” I quipped.

Lavon laughed. Markowitz did not.

The archaeologist headed across the fort; I suppose to stall the inevitable as long as he could. Meanwhile, I worked Markowitz through a few blocking moves with the shield and found his progress to be satisfactory enough.

Well, not really satisfactory , but he had advanced as far as he could reasonably go without tiring himself out before the fight.

Just then, Lavon came back and beckoned us to follow.

“Showtime,” he said.

***

A crowd of off-duty soldiers had gathered in the second floor windows to observe the action, though neither Lavon nor I paid them any attention. Instead, we both watched the passage leading down to the dungeon, eager to learn the identity of Markowitz’s opponent.

A few minutes later, I breathed a sigh of relief as two Romans dragged up the youngster they had hauled in with Barabbas. If anything, the kid looked even more frightened and bedraggled than he had the day before.

“Ray might have a chance after all,” I said to Lavon.

The ring of shields opened to permit the combatants to enter. Soldiers had deposited a gladius and a small Thracian shield at opposite corners of their square. Markowitz picked his up and noticed that it felt much lighter.

“The practice swords are heavier, to build strength and speed,” said Lavon.

Ray ran his thumb across the blade and nearly cut himself. I watched his opponent do the same.

“He can’t be older than sixteen,” said Markowitz.

“Don’t think about that,” I ordered. “Remember what we told you: he’s a dead man whether you do anything or not. Kill him quickly and he won’t suffer with the others.”

Moments later, Pilate looked down from a second story window and motioned for them to go ahead; but those expecting a good match were disappointed.

Each combatant stood as far away from his opponent as he could, grasping his sword in a most unsoldierlike manner. Neither man showed the slightest inclination to begin.

“Hey Antonius,” one of the soldiers upstairs yelled out. “Now we see how scribes fight. Maybe they can throw ink pots at each other.”

The others roared laughing, but Markowitz and the kid didn’t move.

Finally, Pilate lost patience. He motioned to an officer: Get on with it .

Soldiers in each corner pushed the combatants forward. Both took a few half-hearted swings, though these grew more forceful as the full gravity of the situation started to sink in.

“Ray, you idiot,” I yelled. “Get a grip on yourself. Run him through now!”

Markowitz’s face reddened as he screamed and charged forward. The trouble was, he closed his eyes at the last minute, unwilling to see the result of his strike.

The kid ducked out of the way, though fortunately he wasn’t experienced enough to capitalize on the mistake.

Now they each stood on corners opposite those from which they had started.

“Get back into position,” I yelled.

This time, it was the Zealot who charged forward, though Markowitz managed to deflect the blow.

They swung at each other again and again, harder each time. The swords clanged, and the Romans cheered at this new level of intensity.

I didn’t, though.

“Ray, damn it; this isn’t Hollywood!”

The kid took a powerful swing, but missed, which threw him off balance.

“Now is your chance!” I shouted. “Get him!”

Markowitz saw it too. He thrust his gladius forward, just as the legionnaire had demonstrated. To my immense relief, the blow found its mark.

“Now pull back,” I yelled.

My caution was unnecessary. The kid let go of his sword and fell to his knees, holding his free hand over his stomach. Moments later, his shield also dropped to the ground. He stared up to his opponent with imploring eyes.

Markowitz just stood there, in shock at what he had done.

“You have to finish this,” I said. “Hit him at the base of the neck and he’ll die quick. If not …”

He continued to hesitate.

“Keep your eyes open. Do it right,” I admonished.

Still nothing.

“ Now !”

Finally, he stepped forward and screamed as he thrust his sword through the kid’s throat. Then, he yanked the weapon away and took a step back, where he stood transfixed in horror as the young man gurgled one last time before collapsing face first onto the ground.

A few of the Romans groaned while their buddies laughed. Money changed hands, and two slaves came forward to drag the body away while two others mopped up the blood.

Markowitz knelt down, leaning on his sword with his eyes closed as he took several deep breaths.

Pilate shook his head. “A pitiful display of swordsmanship,” he said to Lavon. “You are correct that this man is no fighter. You may take him back — this time.”

Lavon acknowledged the governor but did not speak. The message was clear: a second offense would prove lethal to us all.

Markowitz finally looked up. His eyes smoldered with rage toward the Roman prefect, so I quickly eased the sword from his grasp and handed it, hilt first, to a nearby soldier.

Then, Lavon and I helped him to his feet and led him toward the stairs and up to our room. Publius passed by and the archaeologist asked him to have some wine sent up. Markowitz would surely need it.