Douglas Jackson: Defender of Rome

‘Not too much,’ Marcus warned. ‘I have a treat for you today.’

Valerius eyed him suspiciously. Every time he’d heard those words they had been followed by pain and humiliation. The trainer grinned, turning the scar that split his right cheek into a crevasse. Stocky and darkly handsome, despite the missing left ear which was a permanent memento of his career, he was the fastest man Valerius had ever met, with hands that could blind you with their speed.

He introduced the figure who walked up to join them. ‘Serpentius of Amaya.’ Valerius looked into eyes that hated you in an instant and a face that said its owner liked to hurt people. The narrow white seams that marked the shaven skull told of past battles won and lost. The man was thin and dark as a stockman’s whip and looked just as tough.

‘Serpentius,’ Valerius acknowledged, but the other only stared at him.

‘We call him Serpentius because he’s so fast. The snake, right?’ Marcus explained cheerfully. ‘A Spaniard. Even faster than me.’

Valerius picked up his wooden practice sword. ‘I might as well go home then.’ He spun round to bring his blade down on Serpentius’s upper arm, only to feel the point of the Spaniard’s own sword touching his throat.

Marcus howled with laughter. ‘Quick, eh?’

Valerius nodded, his eyes never leaving his opponent’s. ‘Quick.’

It looked like being a very long two hours.

The men around him practised with sword against net and trident, sword against sword and sword against spear. Valerius only ever used the short legionary gladius or the spatha, the longer cavalry blade. With the gladius, a man killed with the point; quick, brutally effective jabbing strokes and a twisting withdrawal that tore a hole in an opponent’s guts the size of a shield boss. With the spatha it was a combination of the razor edge and brute strength that could bludgeon a man to death or chop him to pieces. But today wasn’t about killing. They would use wooden practice swords and it was about speed and endurance, building strength and discovering weaknesses, his opponent’s and his own. Unless, of course, Serpentius decided differently.

They took their places in the centre of the training ground and Valerius shuffled his feet into the dusty earth to get a feel for its grip. His opponent carried only a sword, in his right hand. Valerius always trained with sword and shield; sword in the left, shield attached firmly to the carved wooden fist that served for his right. No point in strengthening his left arm by constant practice if he allowed his right to wither away. He would not be a cripple.

He felt Serpentius’s eyes on him. When he looked up the Spaniard was staring at him with the same expression he’d seen on the face of a half-starved leopard in the circus.

‘Ready?’ Marcus demanded.

Valerius nodded.

‘A legionary, eh?’ Serpentius spoke so quietly that only his opponent could hear. ‘Legionaries killed my family.’

‘ Fight.’

The practice sword was twice the weight of a normal gladius, but for all the trouble it gave Serpentius it might have been a goose feather. Somehow, the point was instantly past Valerius’s guard and only a desperate lunge with the shield knocked it aside and saved him from a bone-crunching thrust to the heart. Before he could recover, the point was back, jabbing past the shield at his eyes, his belly and his groin. He managed to parry the first thrust and block the second with the shield, but the third caught him a glancing blow on the inner thigh that would have unmanned him if it had landed square. Already the sweat was in his eyes blurring his vision, and he struggled to keep pace with the dancing figure beyond the shield. For the first five minutes it was all he could do to survive. He took hits to the shoulder and a strike that might have cracked a rib. But he fought on, spurred by pain and pride, never touching Serpentius, until gradually his senses came to terms with the speed of his opponent. His brain began to match the thrusts as they were launched, and the sword and the shield anticipated the Spaniard’s attacks.

Serpentius felt the change, and altered his tactics. Now he used his speed to wear Valerius down, always keeping him turning to the right so that the Roman’s sword could never reach him. Constantly changing the line of attack. Now high, now low. A painful crack on the ankle left Valerius hobbling for a few seconds, but the stroke was only a feint. Serpentius’s real target was the eyes. A practice sword might have an edge that wouldn’t cut a loaf of bread and a point barely worth the name, but it could still take your eye out, and Valerius saw more of the tip of Serpentius’s sword than he cared for. By the time Marcus called the first break he knew every splinter and notch intimately, and it was only good fortune that had saved him from being blinded.

He crouched down, his chest on fire, the breath tearing his throat. Marcus knelt beside him as the Spaniard stood a few yards away drinking from a goatskin and barely sweating.

‘You’ve got your sword in your left hand, but you still think like a right-handed fighter,’ the older man said. ‘You’re allowing him to dictate every move and you’re a yard slower than he is. If you keep going like this he’s going to kill you.’

‘Will you let him?’

Marcus let out a bellow of laughter. ‘He’s a gladiator. He could die in the ring tomorrow or the next day. He’s a slave and you are a fucking overfed, underworked lawyer. He wants to kill you, and what are they going to do to him if he does? It’s not a question of will I let him. Will you let him?’

Valerius nodded. ‘You’re right.’ He started to get up, but Marcus put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Don’t fight like a one-handed man, or a two-handed man. Fight like a killer.’

Serpentius heard Valerius laugh out loud, and wondered what the joke was. The Roman wouldn’t be laughing in another few minutes. He was tired of waiting. It was time to finish it.

Valerius waited for the command. Think like a killer. Don’t think like a cripple. Think like the man who stood before the bridge at Colonia and dared Boudicca’s hordes to come to him. Think like the man who slaughtered the bastards by the dozen. He remembered the tattooed champions, tall and proud, who’d fallen before his sword. He remembered a man with burning eyes who ran a hundred paces to kill him, but had died under his shield. Think like a killer.

‘Ready.’

Before Serpentius could move he smashed the shield towards the Spaniard’s body with all his weight behind it and felt the satisfying crunch as the layers of seasoned ash hit solid flesh. If the shield had been equipped with a metal boss he might have disabled his opponent, and as Serpentius retired he kept up the onslaught, always following and never allowing him to set his feet for an attack. He knew he couldn’t maintain this pace for long, but it was enough for now to keep him on the run and make an occasional touch with point or edge. Batter forward with the shield to pull in Serpentius’s sword, then twist to attack from his undefended side. Always moving. Dictate. Cripple the bastard if you get the chance. No. Kill him if you get the chance.

Serpentius was surprised by his opponent’s recovery, but not concerned. His feet would keep him out of serious trouble and he knew he was still going to win. A man carrying a shield had to tire before a man who didn’t. All he had to do was bide his time. He’d make the Roman pay for the bruises.

But the Roman was turning out to be tougher than he’d thought. Valerius was still moving when Marcus called the next break, even though he could barely speak when the former gladiator came to stand at his side and he didn’t dare crouch in case he couldn’t get up again. Instead, he leaned on his shield like a drunkard.