Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  Now I was acutely uncomfortable, suddenly sure that, for whatever reasons, Titus Domitius had not been informed of what had occurred between our grandfathers.

  Determined that he not be in the dark any longer, I began, "Titus, there's something you should know…"

  He cut me off before I could go any further.

  "You mean about how their friendship ended?" He shrugged and said simply, "I know all about it. But we're not them." Before I could frame a response, he clapped me on the shoulder and said, "Let's not keep the mob waiting!" Following him out the door of the hut, he paused just outside and looked back over his shoulder. "We'll talk more about this later. In the meantime, just accept my help, neh?"

  Unable to speak past the lump, I simply nodded, then together, we made our way to the stakes.

  There was a feeling of familiarity that hit me as we approached the stakes that was so overpowering I had to force myself not to pause, knowing that the crowd of men gathered waiting for us would take it as a sign of weakness. Nevertheless, the scene before me was eerily like my bout with Maxentius, which had taken place in the exact same spot. I believe this was the first time what I suppose could be called an insight flashed through my mind; here I was, a little less than a year removed from that moment, essentially doing the same thing. Immediately on the heels of that was the recognition of how this might look to others; here comes Pullus again, they might be thinking. Always trying to prove he's the strongest, the most skilled, the best man with a sword. I am not sure which nettled me more: the idea that others might be thinking this or that this was essentially exactly what I was doing. Still, my legs propelled me toward the impromptu ring of men, yet as I drew closer, I realized with a sense of relief that there was one minor detail that was different. Urso was not there; at first, I thought I had just missed him, but as I surveyed the crowd of men, their faces turned towards me as they shouted what to my ears was almost unanimous hopes for Bestia, I found him nowhere. It is slightly more difficult to pick out Centurions when we are all dressed in just our tunics, although I never saw a Centurion striding about camp or in town without his vitus, and now that I am in the Centurionate, I do the same. Still, even when we are without our full uniforms, if one knows what they are looking for, they are easy to spot, if only because there seems to be an invisible buffer around them. For the most part, rankers are not eager to literally rub shoulders with Centurions, no matter if they are from different Centuries or Cohorts. I suppose this has to do with the idea that, in the excitement of a moment such as this, turning around and slapping the man next to you on the back, or shoving him in disgust if things do not go one's way, is a recipe for a beating from that vitus in his hand. Technically, touching or striking a Centurion is a capital offense, although I had never seen a Centurion, both in the ranks and when I was a boy, exact official punishment for a transgression that occurred in off-duty moments such as this. That, unfortunately, would change, but not until much later.

  Standing in the center of the ring formed by what looked like all the men from the First Century, and most of the men from the other Cohorts of the First, was Optio Tiburtinus, his face expressionless as he watched me approach. I suppose I was easy enough to spot standing at least a head taller, and he snapped an order to men to allow me to make my way through the crowd. Adding to the rush of feelings of reliving some event from my past, the mutters of the men as I navigated past them and into the ring reminded me of yet another incident, albeit a much older one. While I cannot say it was at the same level as the day at the ludus in Arelate when I faced the dwarf Spartacus, there was still enough, if not hostility, resentment in their tones that it made me acutely aware of where their sympathies lay.

  I must have slowed, because I felt a hand push into the small of my back, and then heard Domitius whisper, "Keep going. I'm right behind you."

  That did more to help settle my nerves than anything, and I strode the last few feet to face Tiburtinus. Glancing over his shoulder, I saw Bestia, except at that moment, his back was turned as he made his own final preparations. Meanwhile, Tiburtinus had yet to speak, contenting himself instead by jerking at the faceguard, then checking to make sure the padding on my arms was secured properly. That, I reminded myself, is another change from last time when I faced Maxentius. Since I had a specific goal in mind with the former Legionary and self-proclaimed "best man with a sword" in the Fourth Cohort, I had goaded him into facing me without his arm pads, although to be fair, I had shed mine as well. But it bears repeating that I was not going to try and hurt Bestia, at least any more than any of us are hurt when sparring; I just wanted to send that damned rudis flying.

  Satisfied with me, Tiburtinus called Bestia, who turned about and strode across the beaten ground to face me, with Tiburtinus between us.

  "You both know why you're here," the Optio said in a low voice, then raised it as he issued his final instructions. "You know the rules! There will be no blows to the head, and the instant you hear this," he drew a breath and blasted a shrill note on his bone whistle that made me wince, "you will disengage immediately. And," he made sure to look both of us in the eye, "if either of you ask for quarter, it will be given! Or you'll be scourged. Do you understand?"

  While Bestia answered with a grunt, the most I could muster was a nod of the head.

  Tiburtinus commanded us to withdraw to opposite sides of the ring, but before he turned away, Bestia said, "Remember, you asked for this."

  Again, I could only nod, although I remember thinking, so did you, old man. So did you.

  There is a joke among Legions, and I suppose among Romans, about two bulls surveying a herd of cows; one young, and one old. Since there are so many cows and there is no need for competition, the young bull suggests that they run down to the herd and mate with one of the cows. The old bull has a different idea; they will walk down, and mate with all of them. Of course, it is not quite in that gentle language, but I think this gives an apt comparison of the beginning of our bout. At the blast of the whistle, I went bounding forward in an explosion of movement, counting on my bulk to add a smashing force to my momentum. It would have been devastatingly effective…had Bestia not made a simple hop to the side, allowing me to rush past him.

  WHAM!

  Even now, after many more battles and even more skirmishes, I can say I have only been hit that hard on one other occasion, as his rudis slammed across the small of my back, right at the level of my kidneys. And I cannot say how I managed to stay upright, let alone turn about so quickly, so my shield managed to block his next attack, the first position thrust we Romans love so much. I do remember hearing a roaring over and above the shouts of the men around us, and I suppose it was me letting out a bellow of pain. It felt as if Bestia had laid a burning brand across my lower back, and if I had not been wearing armor, or we had been fighting in earnest, I would be at the very least paralyzed, or dead if I was luckier. However, his blow did have one salutary effect; it made me instantly angry, although initially, this was directed at myself for making such a clumsy mistake. Regardless, I had no time to dwell on that because the instant Bestia recovered from his last thrust, the point of his rudis was striking again, this time directly for my chest. Again, I managed to block him, but the force of his thrust, which the detached part of my mind noticed was perfectly delivered with a savage twist of the hips to add to the force, made me stagger back a step. In itself, that was a rarity; in fact, I could only remember it happening in battle, never in sparring. The noise was deafening, although I believe that most of the roaring was inside my own head as the next several heartbeats saw my body reacting without any help from my mind, as I blocked once more with the shield, another time parrying with my sword. What was not lost on me was that I was completely on the defensive, and, in fact, had not had the time or opportunity to launch my own counterattack. I had immediately noticed that one of my favorite methods of attack would not be possible, at least early on. Most men have a tendency to drop their shield a bit to counter
balance when they launch a first position thrust, lowering the center of gravity of the shield to compensate for the lower thrust. Unfortunately, Bestia was not one of those men and it was with some dismay I saw that, even on multiple thrusts, his shield never dropped a fraction.

  I suppose my eyes must have given me away because, although it was between breaths, Bestia managed to pant, "You were expecting me to drop my shield, weren't you, boy?"

  I saw no reason to deny the obvious, so I just nodded. Somehow, he managed to utter a barking laugh, although I knew this was done just to rattle me further.

  "You're going to have to come up with a better trick than that, boy. Maybe your magic sword grip will help you, neh?"

  He shouted this last to ensure as many men as possible heard and, in doing so, made his first and biggest mistake. Instantly, the rage I had learned to at least partially tame and had been aimed inward at myself for allowing Bestia's first blow to land now turned towards him. If I had had the presence of mind, I would have thanked him for that; instead, I roared my rage as I leapt forward again. I was incensed, there is no doubt, yet unlike the first time it struck me years before, I managed to keep it under control, if just barely. Tilting my shield outward at the bottom, I thrust that edge with just enough force that it looked to be more than a feint, except I still held back enough in the event that the opportunity I was trying to create presented itself. When performing this maneuver, which is highly discouraged for all Tirones, usually with a little help from a vitus vigorously applied to one's body, it does essentially what I had hoped Bestia would do naturally on his own, creating a bit more space over the top of the shield than normal. Under normal sparring circumstances, this would be meaningless because thrusts or slashes to the head are strictly forbidden, but once more, I was counting on my large size to make the difference, albeit in a slightly different manner. And, as I hoped, the instant the bottom of my shield collided with his, the force of the blow tilted my shield even more, giving him more than the breadth of a hand between the lowest part of my faceguard which protects the soft spot of the throat, and the top of my shield. And for a man the skill of Bestia that is a huge target, meaning he did not hesitate, the point of his rudis punching straight for my upper chest. Which was exactly what I was hoping he would do. Adding to the force by twisting my body, I turned my left wrist and brought my shield sweeping across my front from left to right so that the upper part of it collided with his rudis as it was heading for my chest, the shield striking at roughly the middle of the wooden blade. Most importantly, the force I created both with my arm and my torso when I twisted put tremendous pressure on his grip, pushing against the only appendage that maintains the control on the inside of the grip, his thumb. And no matter how strong a man's hand is, as Aulus Vinicius had determined only the gods know how many years ago, that single digit is never as strong as the other four. As I felt the shield bash against the edge of the rudis—like always, Bestia had his blade parallel to the ground as we are trained from our first day—there was a sharp cracking sound and, in that instant, I was sure I had done what I had set out to do, and I let out a shout of triumph when I saw what I was sure was his rudis go spinning off into the crowd of watching men.

  However, I was wrong, as I found out immediately after the broken half of the wooden blade, spinning viciously, went scything into the onlookers, but unlike what happened with Maxentius, my comrades in the crowd managed to dodge aside. Although I did not think it possible, for an instant, it got even louder, as Tiburtinus gave a mighty blast of his whistle, stopping our bout.

  "Return to your seconds!"

  Bestia did not comply immediately and just stood there, still holding what was left of his rudis, which consisted of the grip and about six inches of wood. Inwardly, I cursed bitterly, taking small satisfaction in his sudden look of wariness. Then, just as I was doing, he backed in the direction of Dentulus, who, as Domitius was doing with me, was acting as his second.

  Reaching Domitius, I barely heard him whisper excitedly, "Pullus, do you realize what you just did? Men are going to be talking about this for weeks!"

  Because my mind was still coping with the idea that I had put an enormous amount of force into my move, in the exact way I knew was needed to knock his rudis from his grasp, I did not understand why he was so excited.

  "All I did was break his rudis," I mumbled. "I didn't knock it out of his hand."

  "But you broke it from the blade side!" he exclaimed. "I've never seen anyone do that, and from the look of it, neither has Bestia!"

  The mention of the weapons instructor's name caused me to turn my gaze away from where Tiburtinus was checking with the men in the crowd, making sure nobody was hurt. Turning my attention to Bestia, I will say that I was heartened to see him and Dentulus staring down at the ruined rudis, and while I could not hear what was being said, their posture expressed their dismay eloquently. Once Tiburtinus was satisfied nobody was hurt, he turned back and strode back into the center of the ring.

  "That's the first time I've ever seen that happen." He said this loudly enough so all could hear. Turning to Bestia, he pointed to the shattered rudis, and said something unexpected, at least by me. "Bestia, are you sure you want to continue this match? You don't want to end up broken like that rudis."

  My heart suddenly dropped, but I should have had more faith in Bestia, because his grizzled features flushed as he spat back, "Of course I want to continue! Just because Pullus broke a rudis, that doesn't mean anything!"

  It means if this was real, you'd be dead, I thought to myself, but while I was tempted to say it aloud, I refrained. Frankly, I can admit now that there was a part of me that would have been satisfied if he had capitulated; I had put almost all of my strength into that maneuver, and if that did not work, what hope did I really have of knocking it from his hand? Except now that my blood was up, I was actually happy when he said that. Dentulus had gone scurrying off, and he returned with about three or four rudii, each of which Bestia held in his hand, weighing them.

  "Hurry up, Bestia! Quit stalling!"

  I do not know who said that, but the sentiment was instantly repeated, and the older man turned even darker. Bending down, he retrieved one that he had dropped as he tried the others, and with a nod to Tiburtinus, came back out into the center of the ring. This time, however, I took my time; I had learned my lesson from my weapons instructor, even if it was not in a manner that I would have chosen for myself. Reaching the mark that the Optio had drawn in the dirt with his foot, we stood, crouched and ready to resume.

  "That was nothing, old man." The words came out of my mouth before I was even aware of them in my mind. "Now I'm going to show you what I can really do."

  If Bestia was going to retort, he was cut off with the blast of Tiburtinus' whistle.

  This time, it was Bestia's turn to come leaping at me, launching a hard thrust from the second position, which I had noticed he seemed to favor more than the others. I blocked with my shield, but like with the others, this blow shoved it back into my body. Nevertheless, I thought I detected that it was with just a bit less force than before, and I believe this is when the next idea came to me, except I was impeded by something that I had not expected. During the interim period as Tiburtinus was checking on the injured Legionary, the white-hot anger that had been unleashed with Bestia's jibe had cooled. In practical terms, this meant that perhaps the greatest advantage my rage provided me was missing, and I learned this when I was barely able to move my shield to block his follow-up thrust from the third position, coming in hard from the side, seeking to get behind my protection. For the first time in this bout, I felt it wise to shuffle backward, but Bestia was giving me no room to breathe and regroup. Meanwhile, I was trying to recapture the essence of my anger, because I now understood that I was facing perhaps the best man with a sword I had ever faced. I want to be clear; I had sparred with Bestia before, but the circumstances for this particular bout were different, with much more at stake, and it was only
then I recognized that our weapons instructor had been holding back, even when he faced me. With the Bestia I was confronted with now, I understood that I would need every advantage I could get, and that missing spark of rage was proving to be more needed than ever before, at least under these circumstances.

  When I had first experienced what I would learn was what can best be described as a fit, which is the other thing besides my size that I share with my Avus, what I had immediately noticed was how much more slowly my opponent suddenly seemed to move. That first time it had been Spartacus at the ludus that was secretly owned by my family, in Arelate. When pressed to describe it, the only example I can give without it sounding completely ridiculous is try to think of the difference when you pour honey on your bread on a hot day, then remember doing it in the winter. That was the difference; once this madness consumed me, it was as if my opponent began moving so much more slowly than I, giving me all the time I needed to anticipate my opponent's next move. Honestly, I cannot calculate how many watches I have spent trying to understand what happens to me, although from the very beginning when my father, and more importantly, my Avus' scribe Diocles learned I had this…affliction in the same way as my Avus, they have insisted it is a gift from the gods. What I can say is that, after reading my Avus' account of his life, I am somewhat thankful for the fact that I have more control over it than he apparently did; he never knew when it was going to come. Yet, as I faced Bestia, I was experiencing something new; the difficulty of recalling that rage once it disappeared. To all the spectators I was blocking and parrying, much as I had in the beginning of our bout, yet inside I was in turmoil as I tried to summon whatever it is that gives me this advantage. Regardless of this dilemma, even as I was on the defensive, I also realized that I had been correct; Bestia's thrusts were losing force. Do not mistake me, he still carried a punch behind his attacks like a mule, but before this, they had been akin to that unleashed by my horse Ocelus, who had once caved in a man's chest. Granted, that had been when Ocelus was still fairly young, but Simeon, the Armenian horseman that my Avus kept to care for the great champion had insisted that his kick was the strongest he had ever seen, even when he was in his dotage. As Bestia continued his assault, I believe that is when it occurred to me that perhaps, just perhaps, I would not need my rage to do what I was still determined to accomplish.